THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OB 

TED  BARRETT 


-HARPER'S 

PORTRAIT  COLLECTION 

OF  SHORT  STORIES 


VOLUME   IV 


:"  Tales  of  the  Cloister 


by 
Elizabeth  G.  Jordan 

Author  of 

"  Tales  of  the  City  Room  " 


Illustrated 


New  York  and  London 

Harper  &  Brothers  Publishers 
1901 


Copyright,  1901,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


Alt  rights  reserved. 
August,  1901. 


PS 


TO 

SISTER    CLARE 

WITH  THE  FRIENDSHIP 
OF  TWENTY  YEARS 


62G211 


Contents 


PACK 

FROM  OUT  THE  OLD  LIFE 3 

THE  SURRENDER  OF  SISTER  PHILOMENE    .    .  31 

As  TOLD  BY  MAY  IVERSON 51 

HER  AUDIENCE  OF  Two 79 

THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS 105 

BELONGING  TO  THE  THIRD  ORDER 131 

UNDER  THE  BLACK  PALL 157 

BETWEEN  DARKNESS  AND  DAWN 179 

THE  ORDEAL  OF  SISTER  CUTHBERT    ....  205 

SAINT  ERNESTA  AND  THE  IMP 229 


Illustrations 


ELIZABETH   G.  JORDAN Frontispiece 

"  '  YOU     MAY     LEAVE     HIM,'     SAID     THE 

NUN,  GENTLY " Facing}.      34 

"THEY    HAD    NOT    KNOWN    SHE    WAS 

THERE" "         42 

"CROONING  THE  LITTLE  LULLABY  HE 

HAD  DEMANDED" "         46 

'"WHY  DON'T  YOU  GO  TO  HER?'"     .    .  62 
"THEN    WE   ALL    STROLLED    OUT    TO 
GETHER" "             70 

'"I   KNOW  THAT  MUSIC'" "           124 

SISTER  PATIENCE "            164 

"  STANDING      AT     THE      WINDOW      OVER 
LOOKING   THE  CONVENT   GARDEN  "  .  "           182 
"  '  YOU   ARE   GLAD  TO   SEE  ME  ?'"...  "           198 
"SHE  RANG  SLOWLY  AND  STEADILY"    .  "           240 
"THE  NUNS  DRESSED   DROWSILY".      .      .  "           244 
"THE     IMP     CONQUERED     AND     REPENT 
ANT"    "           250 


From  Out  the  Old  Life 


From  Out  the  Old  Life 


ISTER  GEORGE  and  Sister  Edgar 
were  walking  in  the  convent  gar 
den.  They  had  been  there  less  than 
five  minutes,  but  already,  from  the 
little  balconies  that  hung  on  the  gray  walls  of 
the  old  building,  wistful  eyes  watched  them. 
The  pupils  had  always  found  an  inspiration  in 
the  fact  that  the  two  most  popular  nuns  at  St. 
Mary's  were  ideal  friends  and  took  a  daily  stroll 
together  in  the  twilight.  May  Iverson  had  writ 
ten  a  poem  on  the  subject,  and  another  pupil 
with  artistic  tendencies  had  done  the  best  work 
of  her  school  life  in  a  sketch  which  showed  the 
Sisters  sitting  side  by  side  on  the  rustic  seat  in 
their  favorite  arbor.  Of  late  this  school-girl 
admiration  and  interest  had  been  intensified  by 
the  foreboding  that  Sister  Edgar  could  enjoy 
these  evening  outings  very  little  longer. 

The  pupils  found  the  setting  for  the  striking 
figures  as  attractive  as  the  young  nuns  them 
selves.     On  three  sides  spread  the  wings  of  the 
3 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

vast  building ;  on  the  fourth  rose  a  wall  of  mason 
ry,  so  high  and  thick  as  to  be  an  effective  barrier 
between  the  quiet  cloister  and  the  great  public 
thoroughfare  on  the  other  side  of  it.  In  the 
hollow  square  thus  formed  nestled  the  garden, 
as  quaint  in  its  old-time  picturesqueness  as  if 
it  had  been  lifted  out  of  mediaeval  Spain  and 
transplanted  in  another  century  to  the  soil  of 
this  new  country. 

Above  the  garden  stretched  the  blue  sky, 
now  slowly  fading  into  the  gray  of  early  even 
ing.  In  the  willows  that  lined  the  edges  of  the 
tiny  lake,  sleepy  birds  answered  each  other, 
their  drowsy  calls  mingling  with  the  rustle  of 
the  leaves  and  the  cool  splash  of  the  fountain. 
The  smooth  garden  paths  that  radiated  from  the 
lake  were  fringed  with  old-fashioned  flowers: 
roses,  honeysuckle,  and  mignonette,  with  here 
and  there  a  bed  of  scarlet  geranium  that  flaunt 
ed  its  aggressiveness  brazenly  in  the  rich  so 
briety  of  surrounding  tones.  At  one  end  of  the 
garden  a  chapel,  roughly  hewn  from  solid  rock, 
was  covered  with  a  luxuriant  growth  of  moss 
and  vines;  near  it  towered  a  rustic  cross,  its 
base  a  mass  of  passion  flowers,  its  arms  hold 
ing  aloft  the  crucified  Christ. 

There  were  infinite  sweetness  and  aloofness 
in  the  spot,  so  remote  from  all  suggestion  of 
the  outside  world.  Within  a  stone's  throw 
4 


From   Out  the   Old  Life 

was  life  at  its  greatest  pressure — life  with  its 
twentieth-century  strain  and  sin  and  suffering. 
Here  were  quiet  and  peace.  There  was  repose 
in  the  dim  chapel,  in  the  long,  silent  corridors, 
in  the  rooms  where  the  inmates  worked  and 
prayed,  in  the  vaults  below  these,  where  many 
of  their  predecessors  slept  their  last  sleep.  The 
reflection  of  this  peace  was  in  the  serene  faces 
of  the  nuns  who  strolled  along  the  walks,  their 
slight  figures  outlined  by  their  severely  simple 
black  habits,  and  their  heads  innocently  erect 
under  their  flowing  veils.  The  night  air  was 
full  of  the  murmur  of  their  wonderful  voices,  as 
characteristic  of  the  cloister  as  its  atmosphere. 

The  straining  young  eyes  on  the  balconies 
singled  out  their  two  favorites  from  the  groups 
below,  and  watched  them  as  the  light  grew 
dim.  No  pupil  had  ever  been  invited  to  join 
them  in  this  evening  promenade,  but,  as  May 
Iverson  hopefully  remarked,  there  was  always  a 
chance  that  unselfish  devotion  would  yet  have 
its  reward.  Miss  Iverson  was  seventeen  and 
sentimental.  She  expected  to  be  graduated  at 
the  end  of  the  year.  In  the  mean  time  she 
wrote  notes  to  Sister  George  concerning  the  bit 
terness  of  existence,  and  put  roses  on  her  desk 
in  the  class-room,  and  laid  bare  her  heart  to  her 
whenever  that  dignified  woman  could  be  in 
duced  to  inspect  the  view,  which  was  not  often. 
5 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Perhaps  it  was  appreciation  of  the  vivid  in 
terest  with  which  Miss  Iverson's  eyes  were  fol 
lowing  her  that  made  Sister  George  draw  her 
friend  into  the  shade  of  a  little  arbor  which 
was  screened  by  trees  and  blossoming  trum 
pet-vines.  She  watched  the  other  seat  her 
self  on  the  bench,  and  rest  her  head  wearily 
against  the  lattice-work  behind  her.  She  no 
ticed  with  a  sudden  throb  the  transparent  del 
icacy  of  the  upturned  face,  brought  out  so 
sharply  against  the  background  of  the  long 
black  veil.  Sister  Edgar's  eyes  had  an  un 
natural  brightness,  and  two  red  spots  burned 
in  her  cheeks,  but  her  features,  outlined  in  the 
oval  of  white  linen  under  the  sombre  veil,  had 
not  yet  lost  the  beauty  whose  fame  had  gone 
beyond  the  convent  walls. 

"Who  is  that  nun  at  St.  Mary's  who  Dr. 
Fletcher  says  has  the  face  of  an  angel,  the  fig 
ure  of  Diana,  and  the  voice  of  Calve"?"  Miss 
Iverson  had  once  been  asked  during  an  even 
ing  reception  at  her  father's  home.  She  had 
given  the  information  promptly,  and  then  indis 
creetly  repeated  the  incident  at  school,  with  the 
result  that  the  eminent  specialist,  Dr.  Edward 
Fletcher,  was  no  longer  called  to  the  convent 
as  a  consulting  physician  in  important  cases. 
His  last  visit  had  been  to  Sister  Edgar,  and 
he  had  looked  grave  after  his  examination  of 
6 


From  Out  the  Old  Life 

her  lungs.  He  expressed  regret  that  he  was 
now  forbidden  the  convent  and  the  privilege  of 
helping  her. 

"It  is  only  the  first  stage,"  he  remarked  to 
his  assistant,  more  seriously  than  he  usually 
spoke.  "I  might  have  been  able  to  do  some 
thing  to  arrest  it  if  the  brood  hadn't  taken 
fright  at  the  simple  admiration  of  an  old  man. " 

"Give  her  plenty  of  fresh  air,"  he  had  said 
to  the  convent  infirmarian,  who  stood  beside 
the  patient  during  his  examination.  "Keep 
her  in  the  garden  as  much  as  possible — and 
at  all  events  keep  her  out  of  the  school-room." 

Sister  Edgar  had  not  been  kept  out  of  the 
school-room,  for  the  reason  that  she  had  gen 
tly  protested  against  remaining  away  from  it. 
She  found  teaching  the  girls — so  many  of 
whom  she  loved — a  distraction  from  haunting 
thoughts  which  were  as  new  as  they  were  ter 
rible.  In  the  shadow  of  death,  life  had  sud 
denly  grown  attractive.  She  did  not  analyze 
this,  even  to  herself,  and  she  gave  no  outward 
sign  of  lack  of  peace;  but  Sister  George,  who 
had  known  and  loved  her  in  the  world  as  well 
as  in  the  convent,  knew  that  she  was  not  as 
indifferent  as  she  seemed. 

Sister  George  stood  looking  down  at  her  now, 
an  expression  of  austere  affection  in  her  beau 
tiful  eyes.  For  a  moment  she  could  not  speak, 

7 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

so  sudden  and  complete  was  her  recognition  of 
the  stamp  of  death  on  the  face  before  her.  The 
invalid  had  wearily  closed  her  eyes ;  she  would 
not  have  made  even  this  concession  to  fatigue 
and  despondency  in  the  presence  of  any  other 
but  the  one  who  saw  it,  and  the  incident, 
trivial  in  itself,  was  full  of  meaning.  Sister 
George  turned  her  back  for  a  moment,  osten 
sibly  to  pull  a  flaunting  crimson  flower  from 
its  stem,  but  really  to  control  the  tell-tale  quiver 
of  her  lips.  The  atmosphere  of  self-restraint 
in  which  they  lived  had  so  schooled  the  in 
mates  of  the  cloister  that  even  these  two  women, 
bound  by  ties  of  years  of  affection  and  common 
interest,  rarely  dropped  the  veil  of  reserve  even 
for  each  other.  The  invalid's  first  remark 
showed  that  she  did  not  intend  to  drop  it  now. 

"How  drowsy  this  air  makes  one,  Sister," 
she  said,  softly  "  The  place  and  the  hour  are 
so  restful  that  I  could  go  to  sleep.  Sometimes 
I  think  of  the  garden  at  night  when  I  am  wake 
ful,"  she  added,  a  little  wistfully:  "then  it 
seems  as  if  I  could  sleep  if  I  were  within  hear 
ing  of  the  fountain  and  the  rustle  of  the  leaves." 

"Have  your  nights  been  restless  ones?" 
asked  the  other  at  once.  It  was  the  first  knowl 
edge  she  had  of  the  fact.  Her  friend  hesitated 
a  moment  and  looked  up  with  a  smile  which 
wa.s  almost  an  appeal.  She  was  about  to 

a 


From  Out  the  Old  Life 

speak  when  the  soft  tones  of  an  organ  rolled 
through  the  open  chapel  windows,  in  a  few 
chords,  struck  by  a  strong  hand.  Then  a 
voice,  deep,  rich,  and  powerful,  floated  out  to 
them  in  the  notes  of  an  "  Ave  Maria  "  they  both 
knew  and  loved.  The  invalid's  face  paled  as  she 
listened,  and  her  drooping  form  straightened. 

"  Did  you  know  that?"  she  asked,  suddenly. 
"  Did  you  know  that  Sister  Raymond  is  to  take 
my  place  in  the  choir?" 

"Only  for  a  little  while,"  Sister  George  said, 
hastily.  "Only  until  you  grow  well  and 
strong." 

"  Until  I  grow  well  and  strong,"  the  other  re 
peated,  slowly.  There  was  something  almost 
bitter  in  her  voice  and  in  the  curve  of  her  lips. 
"  I  shall  never  be  well  and  strong  again,  my 
dear."  She  stumbled  a  little  in  this  first  con 
fidence  over  the  last  two  words,  so  seldom  used 
between  them. 

"I  shall  never  be  well,"  she  repeated,  quiet 
ly.  "  You  know  it ;  they  all  know  it,  and  I 
know  it,  too,  although  they  seem  to  think  I  do 
not.  That  is  why  they  have  put  Sister  Ray 
mond  in  my  place.  My  voice  is  gone.  I  shall 
never  sing  again." 

The  voice  that  had  been  so  beautiful  broke  a 
little.  Sister  George  did  not  speak.  Sister 
Edgar  waited  a  moment  for  the  words  that 

9 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

failed  to  come,  and  understood  the  feeling 
under  her  friend's  silence.  The  sympathy  so 
deep,  though  unexpressed,  wrung  her  soul  to 
an  outburst  that  startled  the  repressed  wom 
an  before  her. 

"  I  have  known  the  truth  for  a  long  time," 
she  hurried  on,  speaking,  even  in  these  mo 
ments  of  agitation,  with  the  preciseness  of  the 
cloister  inmates.  "I  am  afraid  I  have  rebelled 
against  it.  I  am  still  young,  and  my  work  is 
not  done.  Life  is  sweet  and  peaceful  here.  I 
have  you  and  my  girls  and  my  music.  Per 
haps  it  is  because  this  illness  has  come  upon 
me  so  suddenly  that  I  am  unprepared.  I  do 
not  wish  to  give  you  up." 

"You  will  have  us  all  beyond,"  murmured 
the  other,  faintly.  It  was  what  the  Reverend 
Mother  had  always  said  to  the  young  nuns 
who  were  starting  on  their  last  journey.  She 
had  seen  so  many — so  pathetically  many  of 
them — go.  Sister  George,  always  calm  and 
self-contained,  had  been  with  a  number  at  the 
end.  She  recalled  what  it  had  been  to  say  the 
simple,  the  conventional  things  to  them  when 
there  had  been  none  of  this  terrible  pulling  at 
the  heart-strings.  Now  her  lips  refused  to 
shape  the  words,  not  through  lack  of  trust, 
but  because  the  human  feeling  of  coming  loss 
was  too  strong. 

10 


From  Out  the  Old  Life 

"Yes,  I  know,  but  not  now/'  murmured  the 
invalid,  drooping  dejectedly  forward  in  her  place. 
"  Not  for  a  long  time,  perhaps ;  and  I  must  make 
the  journey  all  alone.  That  thought  is  con 
stantly  with  me.  I  lie  awake  and  think  at 
night — not  of  the  mere  going — certainly  not 
of  the  peace  and  happiness  beyond,  in  which 
we  all  believe  so  thoroughly.  That  is  the  hor 
rible  phase  of  it.  I  cannot  get  my  imagination 
past  the  mere  act  of  dying — the  suffocation, 
and  the  picture  of  the  lonely  little  cemetery  at 
Palm  Grove.  It  is  all  wrong,  I  know.  Do  not 
tell  me  that;  tell  me  how  to  bear  it  better." 

The  woman's  nerves,  worn  by  illness,  re 
coiled  at  the  thought.  She  trembled  violently 
and  caught  her  friend's  hand  in  both  her  own. 

"Margaret,"  she  cried,  brokenly,  " how  shall 
I  gain  strength  and  courage?  I  do  not  want 
to  die." 

The  use  of  the  worldly  name,  for  the  first 
time  in  all  these  years,  was  like  a  cry  out  of 
the  old  life.  The  heart  of  the  other  woman, 
wThich,  perhaps,  had  come  to  beat  a  little  me 
chanically  under  the  black  habit  of  the  clois 
tered  nun,  responded  to  it  as  if  it  were.  She 
sat  down  and  drew  the  trembling  form  into 
her  arms,  comforting  it  as  a  mother  might 
comfort  a  child  crying  out  in  the  night.  For 
a  moment  they  remained  so  without  speaking, 
II 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

clinging  silently  to  each  other  while  the  twi 
light  deepened  around  them  and  the  air  throb 
bed  with  the  rich  music  of  the  voice  that  sang 
alone  in  the  chapel.  Then  the  training  of 
years  prevailed,  and  the  younger  sister  with 
drew  quietly  from  the  other's  encircling  arms. 

"You  must  forgive  me/'  she  said.  "I  have 
been  foolishly  nervous,  and  I  am  afraid  I  have 
depressed  you.  I  must  pray  for  more  strength, 
and  you  will  pray  with  me,  I  am  sure/' 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  smiled  with  al 
most  her  old  serenity  into  the  other's  eyes. 
She  was  the  calmer  of  the  two,  for  Sister  George, 
supported  by  the  friendly  lattice-work,  had  let 
her  head  droop  forward  and  was  shedding  the 
first  tears  that  had  fallen  from  her  eyes  in 
years. 

"If  we  could  both  be  called  together/'  she 
said.  "  We  left  the  outside  world  " — she  hesi 
tated,  the  words  she  would  have  said  beat 
ing  against  her  lips.  Her  friend  silenced  her 
gently. 

"  These  problems  are  too  large  for  you  and 
me/'  she  said.  "  We  must  leave  them  to  Him." 

She  lifted  the  vines  that  formed  an  arch 
above  them,  and  held  them  \vhile  the  tall  fig 
ure  of  Sister  George  passed  under.  The  con 
vent  bell  was  ringing  as  they  walked  on,  and 
they  saw  the  shadowy  forms  of  their  associ- 


From  Out  the  Old   Life 

ates  flitting  toward  the  wing  of  the  building 
occupied  by  those  who  had  taken  their  final 
vows.  The  two  followed  the  black-garbed  pro 
cession  into  the  main  corridor  of  the  left  wing, 
and,  separating  from  them  there,  passed  slow 
ly  to  the  chapel.  Here  the  voice  of  the  un 
seen  singer,  practising  softly  in  the  organ-loft, 
seemed  an  audible  expression  of  the  silent 
prayer  that  filled  their  hearts  as  they  knelt 
down  together. 

In  the  beginning  Miss  Iverson  had  remarked 
prophetically  that  the  coming  of  Professor  Varick 
to  St.  Mary's  boded  no  good  to  that  institution. 

"Look  at  all  these  susceptible  girls,"  said 
that  sophisticated  young  person,  whose  life 
had  been  hopelessly  blighted  at  sixteen  by  a 
love  affair  which  had  kept  her  awake  for  three 
successive  nights.  "  It's  eminently  proper  and 
highly  educative  to  have  the  dear  old  priests 
instruct  us,  but  to  inject  a  young  and  handsome 
man  into  the  curriculum  is  quite  another  mat 
ter.  Professor  Varick  isn't  a  day  over  thirty- 
eight,  notwithstanding  those  lovely  gray  locks 
on  his  temples,  and  he's  very  handsome.  Did 
you  ever  see  such  eyes?  Then  that  air  of  gen 
tle  melancholy,  as  if  he  had  a  past!  Within 
a  month  every  girl  in  the  institution  will  be  in 
love  with  him.  Mark  my  words. " 
13 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Miss  Iverson  had  made  so  many  reckless  pre 
dictions  with  the  same  air  of  prophecy  that  her 
associates  had  ceased  to  regard  them  as  infal 
lible.  It  was  not  easy  for  one  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  reserved  young  disciplinarian  whom  one 
saw  for  an  hour  only  twice  a  week,  and  who 
filled  that  hour  with  stern  exactions  in  the  line 
of  elocutionary  drill.  Then,  too,  there  always 
was  some  girl  on  the  platform  with  him,  be 
ing  trained  in  the  art  of  graceful  gesture.  The 
spectacle  of  this  suffering  young  person,  whose 
gestures  were  usually  made  at  right  angles, 
was  sufficiently  exhilarating  to  distract  the 
mind  from  sentimental  reflections.  In  addi 
tion  to  these  excellent  reasons,  those  idols, 
Sister  George  and  Sister  Edgar,  were  present, 
sitting  primly  on  opposite  sides  of  the  large 
exhibition  hall  in  which  the  lessons  were  given, 
each  in  charge  of  her  respective  class  and  each 
alertly  alive  to  the  conduct  and  manner  of 
every  young  person  under  her  charge.  So 
the  hearts  at  St.  Mary's  continued  to  beat  with 
their  accustomed  regularity,  and  the  coming 
of  Professor  Varick  wrought  no  harm. 

If  the  young  man  was  conscious  of  the  pres 
ence  of  the  two  sentinels  in  the  background, 
he  showed  no  recognition  of  the  fact  beyond 
including  them  in  the  grave  bow  made  to  the 
assembled  class  when  he  entered  and  departed. 
14 


From  Out  the  Old  Life 

To  them,  however,  he  was  a  new  type,  which 
they  studied  with  interest  and  on  which  they 
had  even  commented  to  one  another  on  sev 
eral  occasions.  The  grace  and  ease  of  man 
ner  of  this  man  of  the  world  appealed  to  the 
dignified  nuns;  his  magnetism  and  good  looks 
influenced  them  also,  although  perhaps  they 
did  not  realize  this. 

Of  late  neither  had  spoken  of  him,  Sister 
George  remaining  silent  from  the  sense  that 
she  had  exhausted  the  possibilities  of  the  sub 
ject  in  those  early  talks,  and  Sister  Edgar  fol 
lowing  her  example  because  her  interest  had 
become  deeper  than  she  cared  to  express.  To 
the  dying  woman  the  magnificent  strength  of 
the  man  had  appealed  from  the  first  with  a 
force  not  to  be  understood  except  by  those  who 
stand  on  the  brink  of  their  graves  and  watch 
the  vigorous  pass  before  them. 

"How  well  he  is,"  she  had  thought  the  first 
time  the  athletic  figure  of  the  professor  had 
faced  his  class  on  the  rostrum.  The  idea  and 
the  reflections  to  which  it  gave  rise  banished 
temporarily  another  thought  of  a  haunting  re 
semblance  which  had  presented  itself  so  vaguely 
as  to  have  at  first  no  definite  place  in  her  con 
sciousness.  By  some  strange  association  of 
ideas  she  recalled  the  time,  "  out  in  the  world  " 
and  many  years  ago,  when  her  brother,  Lieu- 
15 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

tenant  Reynolds,  of  the  regular  army,  had 
carried  her  a  mile,  over  rough  country  roads, 
and  with  her  broken  foot  in  a  hastily  impro 
vised  sling,  to  the  farm-house  nearest  the  scene 
of  the  accident  in  which  she  had  received  the 
injury. 

It  had  been  no  easy  task,  for  she  was  then 
an  athletic  young  person  of  sixteen.  "Jack," 
the  brother  whom  she  had  always  loved  and 
from  whom  she  had  parted  with  the  one  great 
wrench  attendant  upon  her  separation  from  the 
world,  had  been  enshrined  in  her  regard  as  the 
strongest  and  manliest  as  well  as  the  most 
admirable  of  men.  Why  she  should  now  recall 
him  so  suddenly  and  vividly,  especially  in  con 
nection  with  that  distant,  almost  forgotten 
mishap,  was  inexplicable.  Perhaps  it  was  be 
cause  Professor  Varick  seemed  so  strong. 
"He  could  have  done  it,  too,"  she  thought, 
looking  at  the  sinewy  figure  on  the  platform, 
"  and  he  would  have  done  it  as  well  and  as 
gently.  He  looks  so  kind,"  her  semi-conscious 
reflections  had  run  on,  "  and  very  refined.  The 
expression  of  his  eyes  is  charming.  So  is  his 
smile.  Surely,  surely,  somewhere  I  have  seen 
it  before." 

Her  thoughts  recurred  to  the  teasing  like 
ness  as  the  lessons  went  on,  and  then  drifted 
away  to  that  former  life  of  hers,  sometimes  as 
16 


From  Out  the  Old  Life 

remote  as  if  it  had  been  lived  on  another  planet 
and  in  another  age,  but  now  suddenly  and 
vibratingly  real  again.  She  and  Jack  had 
been  happy  together  in  those  old  days.  She 
was  living  them  over  once  more  one  warm 
spring  afternoon  while  a  lesson  by  Professor 
Varick  was  in  progress.  The  murmur  of  the 
girls'  voices  was  in  her  ears,  the  scent  of 
the  convent  garden  came  through  the  open 
windows,  but  all  this  seemed  vague  and 
dream-like.  The  real  things  were  that  pleas 
ant  barytone  voice,  so  full  of  elusive  mem 
ories,  and  that  face,  coming  back  to  her  at 
first  dimly,  then  clearly  out  of  the  mist  of 
years. 

Sister  Edgar  suddenly  leaned  back  in  her 
chair.  Of  course  it  was  Jack's  old  friend, 
Arthur  Varick,  whose  very  name  she  had  for 
gotten,  but  now  recalled  with  a  rush  of  other 
memories.  He  was  much  changed  in  the  four 
teen  years  since  they  had  last  met,  but  he  was 
unmistakably  Arthur  Varick.  His  face  was 
older,  which  was  only  natural,  and  very  worn 
and  sad,  which  seemed  unnatural  when  she 
recalled  the  blithe  youth  she  had  known.  She 
could  almost  hear  again  the  boyish  laughter 
that  had  so  often  come  to  her  ears,  in  those 
old  days,  from  the  haunts  where  he  and  Jack 
were  to  be  found  around  her  father's  home. 
B  17 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

She  fancied  that  few  heard  him  laugh  like  that 
now.  She  wondered  why. 

Of  course  he  would  not  remember  her,  or,  if 
he  did,  he  would  not  recognize  her  in  this  silent 
nun,  wrapped  in  the  dignified  trappings  of  her 
order.  She  had  not  seen  her  own  face  for  many 
years,  save  in  the  absurdly  tiny  mirror  before 
which  the  sisters  arranged  their  veils;  but  she 
knew  that  she  was  much  changed.  He  would 
not  see  in  this  delicate  woman  with  the  hectic 
flush  on  her  cheeks  the  Diana  he  had  known 
in  the  old  days,  and  whom  he  had  petted  and 
loved  as  a  younger  sister.  It  was  very  pleas 
ant  to  see  him  again  and  to  get  through  him 
this  vivid  aftermath  of  life  at  home.  She 
smiled  contentedly  as  she  dwelt  on  it.  That 
was  why  she  had  so  suddenly  recalled  the  for 
gotten  incident  of  Jack's  feat.  Arthur  had 
been  camping  with  him  on  that  occasion. 

The  memory  banished  that  night  the  legion 
of  ghouls  that  had  been  haunting  her  pillow 
so  long.  She  and  Jack  and  Arthur  Varick 
lived  over  the  past  until  she  fell  asleep  and 
went  back  to  the  scenes  of  her  childhood  in 
the  first  untroubled  slumber  she  had  had  for 
a  longer  time  than  she  dared  confess  even  to 
herself. 

In  a  period  of  depression  she  had  found  a 
new  friend,  or,  rather,  an  old  friend  had  come 
18 


From  Out  the  Old   Life 

back  into  her  life  when  she  most  needed  him. 
His  return  affected  her  more  than  she  realized. 
In  the  intervals  between  his  lessons  she  lived 
on  this  revivified  interest  which  was  daily 
growing  deeper.  During  the  actual  lessons 
she  looked  at  him  with  dreamy  abstraction,  in 
which  he  was  vividly  present.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  so  deeply  interested  in  him  per 
sonally,  she  told  herself.  It  was  merely  that 
he  was  a  link  between  the  then  and  now — 
his  presence  was  almost  a  message  from  her 
brother.  If  he  had  been  any  other,  she  thought, 
it  would  have  been  the  same. 

And  then,  suddenly,  the  atmosphere  of  the 
convent  seemed  to  stifle  her,  and  her  heart 
cried  out  for  freedom — for  a  day,  at  least,  away 
from  those  brick  walls  and  under  the  blue  sky. 
Sometimes,  in  such  a  mood,  she  saw  her  old 
friend,  unconscious  of  her  very  existence,  pass 
her  chair  on  his  way  "back  to  the  world/'  as 
she  told  herself  whimsically.  Once  or  twice 
a  half-wish  came  to  her  to  know  more  of  his 
interests  and  his  life  there.  She  wondered  if 
that  explained  her  longing  to  return  to  her 
home  and  her  own  people  —  but  she  did  not 
admit  that  it  did.  She  listened  to  the  artless 
prattle  of  May  Iverson,  hoping  that  talkative 
young  person  would  bring  up  the  subject  of 
the  professor  of  elocution  and  belles-lettres. 
19 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Miss  Iverson,  she  knew,  had  several  times 
met  him  socially.  But  the  girl  did  not  men 
tion  him,  and  the  nun  reproached  herself, 
with  a  deepening  of  the  color  in  her  cheeks, 
for  having  hoped  that  she  might  do  so.  The 
incident  had  in  it  a  warning  which  she  would 
have  heeded  had  she  been  stronger  or  hap 
pier.  As  it  was,  she  asked  herself  a  little 
vaguely  if  she  were  drifting  from  the  letter  or 
the  spirit  of  her  vows,  if  this  interest  in  the 
outer  world  was  too  deep,  if  she  were  losing 
the  religious  faith  that  had  been  strong  enough 
to  bring  her  where  she  was.  She  told  herself 
that  she  was  not.  She  taught  and  prayed 
and  did  the  work  allotted  to  her,  and  waited 
for  the  end.  Her  thoughts  and  memories  were 
her  own.  If  she  chose  to  retire  into  the  past 
during  these  last  months  of  life,  who  could 
question  her  right  to  do  so? 

The  change  that  had  come  upon  her  had  not 
been  unobserved.  The  Mother  Superior  no 
ticed  and  commented  upon  her  added  bright 
ness. 

"Do  you  think  that  Sister  Edgar  is  improv 
ing?"  she  had  asked  Sister  George,  with  kind 
ly  interest.  "Perhaps,  after  all,  she  may  not 
be  as  ill  as  we  feared.  Possibly  we  may  even 
hope  to  keep  her  with  us,  if  our  Father  wills. 
I  have  had  some  thought,"  she  went  on,  "of 
20 


From   Out  the  Old  Life 

sending  her  to  the  convent  at  Adola,  among 
the  pines.  Please  speak  to  her  about  this,  and 
tell  me  if  it  would  please  her." 

When  the  subject  of  the  removal  to  the  pines 
was  broached  to  Sister  Edgar  she  was  so  evi 
dently  unwilling  to  go  -that  the  idea  was  at 
once  abandoned.  Sister  George  was  not  sur 
prised.  She  had  not  loved  this  friend  for  years 
without  knowing  her  almost  as  well  as  she 
knew  herself.  There  was  something  in  the 
other's  heart  from  which  she  was  now  shut 
out.  She  did  not  know  what  it  was,  but  she 
knew  that  it  existed,  and  she  was  content  to 
accept  silently  and  patiently  Sister  Edgar's 
reserve. 

June  came,  and  the  invalid  was  obliged  to 
abandon  her  class  work.  For  weeks  she  had 
dragged  herself  from  her  cell  to  the  class-room 
and  from  the  class-room  back  to  the  cell  at  the 
close  of  the  day,  with  no  strength  for  further 
effort.  Then  she  had  been  absent  a  day,  a 
few  days,  and  again  a  week,  coming  back 
each  time  with  the  cheerful  assurance  that  she 
was  "better,"  given  in  a  voice  whose  sweet 
ness  was  almost  gone.  The  pupils  followed 
it  all  with  comprehending  eyes.  Even  the 
younger  ones  had  seen  it  many  times  before. 

"They  all  go  that  way,"  said  May  Iverson, 
resentfully,  to  a  classmate.  "  That  awful  ceme- 
21 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

tery  is  full  of  women  under  thirty. "  The  tears 
filled  her  sharp  eyes  as  she  spoke. 

Sister  Edgar  was  saying  much  the  same 
thing  at  the  same  moment  to  Sister  George, 
who  sat  beside  the  bed  in  the  infirmary,  to 
which  she  had  at  last  been  moved. 

"I  am  not  the  first/'  she  said,  "and  I  shall 
not  be  the  last.  I  am  quite  resigned — but  we 
will  not  talk  about  it.  Tell  me  of  to-day's  les 
son.  Did  Miss  Iverson  improve  in  her  recita 
tion?"  And  Sister  George  outlined  the  inci 
dents  of  the  afternoon,  wondering  a  little  at 
the  invalid's  interest  and  her  many  questions. 

"Sister  Raymond  admires  Professor  Var- 
ick's  appearance  very  much,"  she  added,  smil 
ingly.  "You  know  she  is  taking  your  place, 
in  charge  of  the  second  division.  She  thinks 
he  has  a  noble  face." 

"He  has,  indeed,"  breathed  the  other,  uncon 
sciously  putting  so  much  of  her  soul  into  the 
words  that  her  friend  looked  at  her  with  a  ques 
tion  in  her  eyes.  The  sick  woman  saw  and 
answered  it. 

"I  have  not  told  you  that  he  was  brother 
John's  old  friend,"  she  said,  simply,  "and  that 
I  knew  him  well  many  years  ago.  The  sum 
mer  you  were  in  Europe  we  camped  in  the 
Adirondacks.  He  was  there  with  our  family  as 
Jack's  guest.  When  I  broke  my  ankle,  and 
22 


From   Out  the  Old   Life 

Jack  carried  me  to  Mr.  Walton's,  he  came,  too, 
so  full  of  sympathy  and  so  anxious  to  help — 
though  there  was  nothing  he  could  do.  He 
was  always  so  kind.  I  remember  now  a 
thousand  things  that  he  did  which  did  not 
impress  me  then,  for  I  was  only  sixteen." 

She  stopped,  for  breathing  was  growing  dif 
ficult.  The  other  looked  at  her  with  a  grow 
ing  comprehension.  Much  was  suddenly  ex 
plained — so  much  more  than  was  told  in  the 
halting  words. 

"Then,  when  he  came  here,"  Sister  Edgar 
continued,  resolutely,  "at  first  I  did  not  know 
him,  and  he  has  never  recognized  me.  When 
I  remembered  him  all  the  past  came  back,  and 
the  old  friendship  with  it,  and  somehow  his  be 
ing  here  has  helped  me  through  these  last 
hard  months.  He  is  so  strong  and  so  good! 
I  know  he  would  do  anything  for  me  that  he 
could  if  he  knew,  but  I  am  glad  he  does 
not.  He  used  to  call  me  his  little  sister,  and 
pretend  to  tell  me  all  his  secrets  and  ask  my 
advice.  I  was  so  proud  of  it,  and  I  felt  so 
grown  up!  I  believe  I  advised  him  freely." 
She  stopped  and  laughed  a  little.  "And  he  is 
unhappy,  too.  I  do  not  know  why,  but  I  feel 
it.  Perhaps  that  is  what  has  drawn  me  to 
him — the  thought  of  his  trouble.  It  seemed 
as  if  he  ought  to  tell  me  about  it,  as  he  used  to 
23 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

do  when  he  really  had  no  cares  and  pretended 
to  have  them.  And  now  there  is  real  need  of 
sympathy,  I  am  sure.  I  have  felt — oh,  I  have 
felt  as  if  he  were  a  little  child  that  I  longed  to 
comfort." 

Her  voice  broke  in  a  paroxysm  of  cough 
ing,  but  she  went  on  steadily  as  soon  as  it  had 
ceased. 

"  Now  that  I  am  no  longer  in  the  class-room, 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  about  him — what  he  says 
and  how  he  looks.  At  times  he  seems  brighter 
than  at  others,  and  smiles  the  boyish  smile  I 
remember  so  well.  I  never  forgot  that,  even 
though  I  did  not  care  for  him."  She  went  on 
almost  fiercely.  "Now  I  wish  to  know  as 
much  of  him  as  I  can.  That  is  why  I  am  ask 
ing  you  to  tell  me  of  him.  And  you  will  do 
it,  Margaret — you  will  do  this  for  me,  what 
ever  you  may  think."  She  sat  up  with  sudden 
strength,  and  pulled  the  other's  hands  away 
from  the  face  which  was  hidden  in  them. 

"You  are  so  good,"  she  said,  softly.  "You 
wish  to  say  so  much,  and  you  say  nothing.  It 
is  better.  Let  me  talk  now,  for  I  cannot  talk 
much  longer." 

She  held  her  friend's  hand  against  her  heart, 
stroking  it  absently  as  she  went  on. 

"It  will  all  be  over  very  soon,  and  I  am  rec 
onciled.  Do  you  remember  our  talk  in  the  ar- 
24 


From   Out  the  Old  Life 

bor  that  day?  How  afraid  I  was  to  die!  That 
has  passed.  Afterwards  I  had  other  moods, 
almost  as  hard  to  bear.  I  longed  to  get  away 
from  here.  I  wanted  to  die  out  in  the  world, 
with  my  own  people  around  me.  I  wanted  to 
be  where  I  was  a  part  of  life — as  he  is.  And 
then  I  remembered  that  even  if  I  were  in  the 
world  I  should  have  to  leave  it,  and  that  here 
I  am  apart  from  it,  and  in  either  case  there 
could  be  no  real  life  for  me.  The  end  that  is 
approaching  is  the  best  solution  of  the  prob 
lem,  of  course,  for  it  is  our  Lord's  solution. 
Do  not  think  I  have  lost  my  faith ;  it  was  never 
stronger  than  now.  What  would  life  mean  to 
me — a  nun  whose  final  vows  have  been  taken 
and  who  had  let  anything  come  between  them 
and  her?  This  tragedy  is  not  of  my  own  mak 
ing;  I  did  not  seek  it.  It  came  when  I  was 
weakest,  and  I  had  not  the  strength  to  fight 
against  it.  I  did  try  to  fight  when  I  knew  what 
it  was,"  she  added,  wearily,  "but  I  could  not. 
Everything  came  together — my  illness,  my  de 
spair,  my  sudden  longing  to  go  back  to  the  out 
side,  natural  life.  And  then  he  came.  And  I 
remembered  him.  And  the  old  friendly  feeling 
returned — unconsciously  at  first — " 

The  words,   which  had  for  some  moments 
been   almost  inaudible,  died  on  her  lips.     She 
was   so  weak    she    could  hardly  swallow  the 
25 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

draught  her  friend  hastened  to  give  her.  Then 
she  lay  quiet  for  a  long  time,  and  finally 
seemed  to  fall  asleep. 

Sister  George  was  not  obliged  to  decide  the 
difficult  question  that  lay  in  this  last  request. 
Three  days  later,  when  Professor  Varick  was 
giving  his  next  lesson,  she  sat  in  her  place 
with  a  stricken  face  that  awed  even  the  liveliest 
members  of  her  class  and  carried  consterna 
tion  to  the  hearts  of  the  more  emotional  pupils. 

"Sister  Edgar  is  worse,  I  know  she  is," 
wrote  May  Iverson  in  a  pencilled  note  to  a  friend 
near  her.  "If  she  were  not,  Sister  George 
would  never  look  like  that." 

The  message  went  the  length  of  the  great 
hall,  carrying  in  its  wake  a  settled  gloom  of 
which  only  Professor  Varick  remained  uncon 
scious.  He  was  in  an  unusually  light-hearted 
mood.  Half  a  dozen  times  the  nun  who  sat 
looking  at  him  and  thinking  of  her  friend  dy 
ing  without  her  in  the  distant  infirmary,  saw 
on  his  lips  the  brilliant  smile  Sister  Edgar  had 
mentioned  during  their  last  long  talk  together. 

May  Iverson  was  going  half  -  heartedly 
through  a  recitation,  when  the  slow  tolling  of 
the  convent  bell  filled  the  hall.  It  was  the  om 
inous  bell  whose  deep  notes  spoke  of  the  pass 
ing  of  another  soul.  Sister  George  started  to 
her  feet  as  if  the  sound  had  been  a  blow,  and 
26 


From  Out  the  Old  Life 

then  sank  heavily  upon  her  knees.  For  the  first 
time  the  pupils  saw  the  serene  nun  swept  out 
of  her  dignified  calm.  They  knew  she  had  for 
gotten  where  she  was,  for  she  counted  the 
strokes,  with  her  face  turned  towards  the  con 
vent  chapel,  and  tears  falling  unchecked  on  the 
white  linen  on  her  bosom. 

A  thrill  passed  over  the  assembly.  Sev 
eral  of  the  girls  began  to  cry  softly.  May 
Iverson  turned  an  appealing  face  to  the  pro 
fessor.  He  was  listening  with  surprise  to  the 
unusual  interruption  which  had  so  strangely 
affected  his  class. 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  dismiss  us  for  to 
day,  Professor  Varick,"  she  said,  brokenly. 
"That  bell  is  telling  us  that  our  dearest,  our 
very  dearest  teacher,  Sister  Edgar,  has  just 
died.  You  know  her,"  she  added,  "the  nun 
with  the  lovely  face,  who  always  sat  down 
there  at  the  left,  where  Sister  Raymond  is  sit 
ting  now." 

Professor  Varick  showed  no  annoyance  over 
the  abrupt  ending  of  the  lesson.  His  face  was 
grave  and  his  manner  very  gentle  and  sym 
pathetic,  as  he  looked  down  at  the  wet  eyes 
upturned  to  his. 

"Certainly,  I  will  dismiss  the  class,"  he 
said,  kindly.  "I  think  I  remember  having 
seen  the  sister  at  her  post.  She  sat  at  the 
27 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

right  side,  did  she  not — or  was  that  the  one 
you  call  Sister  George?  Yes?  Then  I  am 
afraid  I  do  not  recall  her,  after  all." 

He  paused  a  moment  as  he  was  passing  Sis 
ter  George.  She  had  regarded  him  with  a 
singular  look  in  her  wet  eyes. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  of  the  loss  to  the  con 
vent/'  he  said,  a  little  formally.  "Yet  I  am 
Catholic  enough  to  know  how  you  all  regard 
this.  In  fact,  perhaps  it  is  an  odd  sense 
of  sympathy  that  makes  me  feel  for  the  sister. 
We  poor  worldlings  have  to  lean  on  human  love 
for  our  support.  Sister  Edgar  was  spared  any 
of  the  pain  which  comes  from  that  being  deferred 
or  in  jeopardy.  It  is  her  spiritual  marriage, 
this  death.  That  is  why  I  feel  such  a  singular 
sympathy — almost  felicitation,"  he  added,  with 
a  slow  smile  of  very  winning  sweetness. 

If  he  had  meant  Sister  George  to  ask  the 
reason  for  such  enigmatic  words,  she  did  not. 
She  marked  the  sparkle  in  his  eye  and  the  un 
conscious  way  in  which  he  straightened  him 
self.  Inexperienced  as  she  was,  there  was  no 
mistaking  his  meaning  nor  the  buoyant  con 
tent  of  the  man  to  whom  the  Only  Woman  had 
at  last  said  "  yes." 

She  lowered  her  eyes  and  bowed   gravely. 
He  accepted  her  dismissal  of  him  with  equal 
gravity,  bowed,  and  went  his  happy  way. 
28 


The  Surrender  of  Sister 
Philomene 


The  Surrender  of  Sister 
Philomene 

HE  whole  matter  dated  from  the  ar 
rival  of  the  baby. 

He  was  brought  to  the  convent 
in  the  form  of  a  large  and  feverishly 
active  bundle,  which,  being  unrolled,  revealed 
to  the  eyes  of  the  Mother  Superior  and  her 
secretary  a  small  boy. 

He  was  about  two  years  old,  and  had  blue 
eyes,  yellow  curls,  and  a  constant  and  radiant 
smile  which  disclosed  six  absurdly  small  teeth. 
He  had  also  very  fat  legs,  a  large  dimple  in 
each  cheek,  and  a  manner  which  was  familiar 
to  the  last  degree. 

Having  thrown  aside  his  wrappings  and 
pushed  them  out  of  the  way  with  the  toe  of  his 
buttoned  boot,  he  calmly  walked  over  to  the 
Mother  Superior,  climbed  into  her  lap,  laid  his 
yellow  head  against  the  stiff  linen  that  cov 
ered  her  bosom,  and,  with  a  smile  of  sweet  con 
tent,  dropped  into  a  restful  slumber. 
31 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

This  incident  led  to  his  acceptance  as  an  in 
mate  of  the  institution.  Notwithstanding  the 
pathos  of  his  position,  so  young  an  orphan, 
and  the  fact  that  the  mother  who  had  just  died 
had  herself  been  brought  up  in  the  convent,  the 
nuns  had  decided  that  they  could  not  take  him 
even  for  the  few  months  during  which  his  guar 
dian  wished  him  to  remain  with  them.  They 
had  intended  to  convey  this  information  to  the 
trained  nurse  who  had  brought  him,  but  the 
ease  and  assurance  of  his  manner,  his  little 
black  dress,  and  his  air  of  having  reached 
home  after'  a  weary  journey,  checked  the  w^ords 
upon  their  lips.  The  Mother  Superior  hastily 
deposited  her  unusual  burden  on  a  hair-cloth 
"  sofa "  that  stood  in  the  corner,  but  she  was 
observed  to  turn  a  fascinated  gaze  upon  it  even 
while  she  retired  to  the  other  end  of  the  recep 
tion-room  for  a  hurried  consultation  with  her 
secretary. 

The  nurse  glanced  from  the  sleeping  child 
to  the  two  black- veiled  heads  so  close  together, 
and  smiled  to  herself.  She  knew  full  well  the 
fascinations  of  Frederick  Addison  Malcolm, 
aged  two.  Had  he  not  turned  the  battery  of 
them  upon  her  since  his  mother's  death,  and 
was  not  her  heart  even  now  wrung  at  the  pros 
pect  of  parting  from  him?  Of  course  the  nuns 
would  keep  him.  Who  could  help  it?  She 
32 


Surrender   of  Sister   Philomene 

rose  to  her  feet  as  the  Superior  came  towards 
her. 

"You  may  leave  him/'  said  the  nun,  grave 
ly — "for  a  time,  at  least;  we  can  do  no  less 
in  memory  of  his  mother." 

The  nurse  kissed  the  sleeping  baby  and 
went  away  with  tears  dimming  her  brown 
eyes. 

The  secretary  bent  and  lifted  the  sturdy  fig 
ure  in  her  thin  arms.  It  was  no  light  weight, 
and  the  effort  she  made  woke  Frederick  Addi- 
son  Malcolm  from  his  slumbers.  He  turned 
one  sleepy  blue  eye  on  her,  then  the  other,  and 
a  look  of  supreme  discontent  settled  upon  his 
brow.  He  sat  up  with  a  ruffled  countenance, 
and  beat  his  small  heels  upon  the  secretary's 
stomach.  She  put  him  hastily  on  the  floor. 

"Fweddie  tan  yalk  hisself,"  he  remarked, 
with  dignity.  He  toddled  over  to  the  door 
where  the  Superior  stood  surveying  him  with 
interest  and  awe.  He  looked  up  into  her  face 
and  bobbed  his  head  with  ingratiating  friend 
liness. 

"Fweddie  tan  yalk,"  he  repeated.  Then  he 
slid  his  dimpled  hand  into  her  soft  cool  one, 
buried  his  curls  in  her  black  robe,  and  thought 
better  of  his  proposition.  "  But  Fweddie  would 
like  oo  to  cawwy  him,"  he  added,  with  a  little 
gurgle  of  delight  over  the  happy  thought. 
C  33 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

A  slow  pink  flush  stole  up  to  the  nun's  fore 
head.  She  glanced  uneasily  at  her  secretary 
and  down  at  the  small  autocrat  whose  hands 
held  her  a  prisoner.  He  removed  them  and 
lifted  his  arms  to  her  with  a  shade  of  surprise 
in  his  blue  eyes.  Never  before  had  any  one 
held  out  against  them.  The  baby's  little 
world  for  a  moment  reeled  under  his  feet.  Then 
the  dignified  woman  above  him  bent  and  lifted 
him  gently. 

He  tucked  his  head  under  her  chin,  and  his 
dimpled  hand  stole  up  and  rested  against  her 
cheek.  She  laid  her  head  against  his  for  an 
instant,  and  an  inarticulate  sound  passed  her 
lips — the  sound  every  baby  knows  and  every 
true  woman  makes  when  she  feels  a  little  body 
nestling  against  her  heart.  The  two  left  the 
room  together,  and  the  secretary  followed  them 
dowrn  the  long  dim  corridor  to  the  refectory,  her 
eyes  twinkling  behind  her  glasses. 

In  exactly  one  week  Frederick  Addison  Mal 
colm  was  the  head  of  the  institution.  He  de 
cided  no  questions  and  he  signed  no  papers, 
but  he  gave  orders  freely  to  high  and  low  alike, 
and  there  was  in  the  land  the  sound  of  foot 
steps  hastening  to  do  his  bidding.  The  nuns 
were  not  at  all  sure  that  this  was  right.  They 
had  many  theories  on  the  training  of  children, 
and  were  anxious  to  demonstrate  them  on  the 
34 


Surrender   of  Sister   Philomene 

first,  and  possibly  the  last  subject  admitted  to 
their  care.  But  what  were  theories  in  the  pres 
ence  of  this  remarkable  infant?  One  seraphic 
smile  from  Frederick  Addison  upset  every  reso 
lution  and  left  the  soft-hearted  Sisters  help 
less  in  his  presence. 

They  knew  he  should  not  be  carried  from 
place  to  place;  he  was  large  enough  to  walk. 
Yet  when  he  sat  down  in  a  flower-bed  or  in  the 
middle  of  the  chapel  and  announced  that  he 
was  tired,  it  was  obviously  impossible  to  leave 
him  there.  At  the  suggestion  of  Sister  Phil 
omene  they  tried  this  plan  once  or  twice.  But 
as  young  Frederick  had  immediately  fallen 
into  a  pleasant  slumber,  the  experiment  could 
hardly  be  called  a  success,  especially  as  half 
the  nuns  in  the  institution  were  unable  to  con 
centrate  their  minds  on  anything  else  while  it 
was  in  progress. 

Another  point  which  greatly  disturbed  them 
was  his  insistence  on  being  rocked  to  sleep. 
This  was  a  highly  improper  performance. 
They  all  knew  that,  and  each  could  have  quoted 
excellent  authority  for  the  conviction.  The 
thing  to  do,  without  question,  was  to  put  the 
child  in  his  crib,  tell  him  he  must  go  to  sleep, 
and  leave  him  there  to  do  it.  There  could,  of 
course,  be  no  objection  to  one's  remaining  out 
side  the  door  and  listening  until  all  was  quiet. 
35 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

But  Frederick's  conduct  made  this  course  im 
possible.  It  was  not  that  he  cried;  if  he  had 
they  might  have  summoned  strength  to  leave 
him.  He  did  not  cry.  His  air  was  one  of  pa 
thetic  surprise  at  desertion,  mingled  with  a 
beautiful  submission  and  an  abnormal  wakeful- 
ness.  He  lay  in  the  dim  room,  talking  softly 
to  himself,  or  making  a  queer  humming  sound 
which  he  seemed  to  think  was  pleasingly  mu 
sical.  Occasionally  he  sat  up,  and  the  anx 
ious  watchers  outside,  their  ranks  constantly 
augmented  by  others  as  anxious,  heard  a  scram 
ble,  or  the  sound  of  a  falling  toy  or  pillow. 

Once  the  thump  was  so  very  loud  that  prompt 
investigation  was  made,  and  the  fat  body  of 
Frederick  was  discovered  reposing  on  the  floor. 
He  had  fallen  out  of  his  crib,  but  he  showed 
no  bitterness  over  the  incident.  After  the  baby 
had  been  rocked  and  crooned  over  for  five  or 
ten  minutes  he  was  off  to  the  Land  of  Nod. 

This  solution  of  the  problem  was  so  simple 
and  so  humane  that  he  was  thereupon  rocked, 
and  there  was  a  spirited  rivalry  as  to  who  should 
perform  the  kindly  service.  Every  nun  vol 
unteered  but  one — Sister  Philomene.  She  was 
observed  to  shun  the  company  of  Frederick  Ad- 
dison. 

Sister  Philomene  was  not  sentimental.  She 
was  absolutely  just,  but  very  cold,  and  a  lit- 
36 


Surrender  of  Sister    Philomene 

tie  hard.  She  had  no  favorites,  and  had  not 
even  the  quasi-intimates  that  are  all  conventual 
life  permits.  She  secretly  prided  herself  on 
her  unbending  nature.  Had  he  shared  her  in 
difference  all  would  have  been  well,  but  right 
here  the  fine,  subtle  irony  of  the  situation  was 
manifest.  With  the  perverseness  of  Fate,  it 
was  on  Sister  Philomene  that  the  Light  of 
the  Convent  had  fastened  his  youthful  affec 
tions. 

No  one  could  understand  it,  and  certainly 
the  baby  could  not  explain  it.  Perhaps  May 
Iverson,  a  pupil  at  the  institution,  came  the 
nearest  to  the  kernel  of  the  situation. 

"It  is  the  contrariness  of  man,"  she  said, 
positively.  "  The  infant  is  a  flirt,  even  at  this 
tender  age.  He  is  tired  of  the  cloying  sweets 
he  is  getting  on  all  sides,  so  he  is  making  love 
to  unresponsive  Sister  Philomene  by  way  of 
variety." 

Making  love  he  certainly  was.  At  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  austere  face  of  the  nun,  whose 
eyes  were  the  only  eyes  that  looked  at  him 
coldly,  whose  lips  were  the  only  ones  that  did 
not  curve  into  smiles  under  his,  the  baby  start 
ed  for  her  as  fast  as  his  chubby  legs  could  car 
ry  him.  Through  the  convent  corridors  and 
along  the  garden  walks  he  pursued  her,  his 
curls  standing  on  end  with  joyful  excitement, 

37 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

his  six  teeth  shining,  his  voice  cooing  appeals 
to  her  to  "wait  for  Fweddie." 

She  never  did.  Unexpected  doors  swallow 
ed  her  up,  dark  and  unexplored  corners  wrap 
ped  her  in  mystery,  and  on  the  edge  of  the 
abysses  into  which  she  had  seemingly  dropped 
Frederick  Addison  was  wont  to  pause  in  wide- 
eyed  wonder.  There  was  comedy  in  the  lit 
tle  drama,  but  there  was  tragedy  too. 

The  summer  came  and  went,  and  Frederick 
continued  on  his  sunny  way.  He  spent  the  long 
days  in  the  garden,  rolling  his  little  wheelbar 
row  up  and  down  the  path  and  over  the  flower 
beds,  leaving  devastation  in  his  wake,  to  be 
freely  forgiven.  His  orbit  could  be  traced  by 
crumbs  of  the  seed-cake  he  was  usually  eat 
ing,  which  was  fortunate,  for  he  fell  asleep  in 
out-of-the-way  corners,  and  had  to  be  discovered 
by  rescue  bands.  He  had  for  each  of  his  favorite 
Sisters  some  weird  and  mysterious  name  by 
which  he  called  her,  and  to  which  she  proud 
ly  answered.  The  ease  and  startling  famili 
arity  of  his  manner  became  intensified  as  time 
passed.  He  demanded  songs  and  "  'tories " 
from  the  Mother  Superior,  and  took  the  pins 
out  of  her  veil  and  showed  a  feverish  interest 
in  the  question  of  her  ears — which,  of  course, 
her  coif  concealed.  It  was  rumored  that  on 
one  occasion  he  refused  to  be  comforted  until 
38 


Surrender   of  Sister   Philomene 

she  had  unfastened  the  linen  bands  and  exhib 
ited  her  ears  to  his  inspection — but  this  story 
was  never  verified. 

When  the  chilly  days  of  autumn  came  he 
still  dug  in  the  garden,  enveloped  in  a  little 
tightly  buttoned  reefer  and  woollen  "leggings," 
and  wearing  on  his  head  a  hood  in  which  his 
face  shone  like  a  red  apple.  Frederick  Addi- 
son  believed  in  fresh  air,  and  got  it  by  his  usual 
method  of  quietly  taking  what  he  wanted. 

When  the  winter  snow  began  to  fall  and  the 
flower-beds  were  covered  and  the  birds  spread 
their  wings  and  left  him,  dreary  days  began 
for  the  infant.  He  became  a  "shut-in,"  and 
all  the  attractions  of  the  play-room  fitted  for 
him  failed  to  compensate  for  the  loss  of  the 
birds  and  the  flowers  he  loved. 

Friends  of  the  young  mother  who  slept  under 
the  deepening  snows  thought  of  her  baby  be 
hind  the  convent  walls,  and  brought  him  gifts 
and  playthings.  The  nuns  developed  a  mar 
vellous  talent  for  games  of  which  they  had 
never  before  heard,  and  their  repertoire  of 
songs  and  stories  adapted  to  the  amusement 
of  small  boys  grew  like  a  rolling  snowball. 
But  the  baby  was  bored  and  showed  it.  He 
turned  again  to  Sister  Philomene,  but  found 
her  as  of  yore — as  frosty  as  the  outside  air. 
Intrepid  as  he  was,  he  shook  in  his  little  shoes 
39 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

when  she  turned  her  cold  glance  upon  him; 
but  her  fascination  still  held  and  his  allegi 
ance  to  her  did  not  waver. 

Then  one  night  he  fell  ill. 

He  had  not  been  wholly  well  for  several  days. 
His  red  cheeks  were  more  flushed  than  usual, 
and  the  hand  that  lay  so  confidingly  on  the 
faces  of  his  friends  was  dry  and  feverish.  Un 
skilled  in  the  meaning  of  these  infantile  symp 
toms,  the  nuns  were  still  sufficiently  alarmed 
to  fill  him  with  simple  remedies  they  used 
for  colds,  and  to  keep  him  more  closely  than 
ever  in  his  play-room.  Once  each  day  he  was 
bundled  up  like  an  Indian  papoose  and  taken 
for  a  turn  around  the  garden  walks,  but  that 
was  all,  and  when  the  outing  was  over  they 
toasted  him  before  the  fire  until  he  was  warmed 
through.  Notwithstanding  these  attentions, 
he  continued  feverish,  and  showed  an  unusual 
langour  and  drowsiness.  When,  added  to 
these  symptoms,  he  developed  another,  which 
in  any  one  but  Frederick  Addison  wrould  have 
been  rated  irritability,  the  awe  -  struck  and 
anxious  Mother  Superior  directed  Sister  Rod 
riguez,  the  convent  infirmarian,  to  take  him 
in  hand,  watch  him  carefully  and  restore  him 
to  his  usual  condition  of  robust  health. 

It  was  a  congenial  duty,  and  Sister  Rod 
riguez  entered  upon  it  with  much  zeal.  For  pur- 
40 


Surrender   of  Sister   Philomene 

poses  of  observation  she  remained  in  the  baby's 
nursery  at  night,  and  that  pleasant  room,  so 
unusual  in  such  an  institution,  became  the 
Mecca  to  which  the  feet  of  the  nuns  turned  each 
day  during  the  short  intervals  in  which  these 
busy  women  could  leave  the  manifold  duties 
connected  with  their  vocation.  Sister  Philo 
mene  alone  did  not  call.  Even  when  she  was 
told  that  the  baby  had  on  several  occasions 
asked  for  "Chicker  Menie"  (his  name  for  her), 
she  did  not  find  time  to  drop  in  upon  him.  She 
would  go  at  once,  she  explained,  if  he  were 
really  ill;  but  as  the  trouble  seemed  to  be  only 
a  slight  cold,  and  as  he  was  receiving  the  at 
tention  of  the  entire  community,  she  thought 
he  would  not  need  her. 

One  night,  toward  morning,  Sister  Rod 
riguez  was  aroused  by  a  long-drawn,  strangling 
cough  from  the  crib.  She  was  beside  it  in  an 
instant.  It  did  not  need  the  child's  labored 
breathing,  flushed  cheeks,  and  shining  eyes  to 
show  her  that  something  was  seriously  wrong. 
She  recognized  the  enemy,  and  with  a  sinking 
heart  prepared  for  the  battle.  She  rang  for 
help,  and  within  a  few  moments  half  a  dozen 
of  the  Sisters  were  with  her,  and  everything 
was  being  done  in  behalf  of  the  strangling 
baby  on  whom  the  croup  had  fastened  so 
relentless  a  grip.  They  at  once  sent  across 

41 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

the  street  for  the  old  doctor  who  came  in  con 
sultation  over  serious  cases  in  the  convent,  and 
he  arrived  after  some  delay. 

He  entered  the  room  cheerfully,  with  the  evi 
dent  conviction  that  there  was  nothing  serious 
the  matter  with  the  youngster  who  seemed  to 
be  upsetting '  the  quiet  life  of  the  cloister.  But 
after  one  look  his  face  grew  grave.  He  set  to 
work  at  once,  with  the  assistance  of  Sister 
Rodriguez,  giving  hurried  directions  right  and 
left.  Then  he  glanced  round  the  little  circle 
of  anxious  faces  and  spoke. 

"  There  are  too  many  here,"  he  said,  brusque 
ly.  "  You  can  do  nothing,  Sisters ;  take  your 
rest,  and  we  will  remain  with  the  child.  Sis 
ter  Rodriguez  and  I  will  do  what  is  necessary, 
with  the  assistance  of  —  well"  he  hesitated, 
glancing  from  one  face  to  another — "Sister 
Philomene." 

The  Sisters  looked  round  in  surprise.  They 
had  not  known  she  was  there.  But  the  aus 
tere  nun  came  forward  with  the  coolness  and 
unruffled  calm  that,  by  contrast  to  the  anxiety  of 
her  associates,  had  attracted  the  doctor's  atten 
tion  and  decided  his  choice  of  an  assistant.  The 
others  went  out  reluctantly,  leaving  the  doctor, 
the  convent  infirmarian,  and  the  Mistress  of 
the  Novices  to  do  battle  together  for  the  life 
that  had  grown  so  dear  to  the  sisterhood. 

42 


Surrender   of   Sister   Philomene 

It  was  a  long,  hard  fight.  Sister  Rodriguez 
was  exhausted  before  it  was  won,  and  the  old 
doctor,  whose  age  told  in  such  a  strain  as  this, 
looked  gray  in  the  early  morning  light.  Sis 
ter  Philomene  alone  was  fresh  and  ruddy- 
hued,  showing  no  effect  of  sleeplessness  or 
physical  effort.  The  doctor  looked  at  her  ap 
provingly  as  he  picked  up  his  hat. 

"I  will  run  over  to  the  house  now,"  he  said, 
"and  get  a  nap.  My  years  turn  upon  me, 
Sister,  and  remind  me  that  I  am  at  their  mercy. 
I  hope  the  crisis  is  passed,  but  if  the  child  grows 
worse  again  send  for  me.  I  will  be  ready  to 
come  at  a  moment's  notice.  Get  Sister  Rodri 
guez  to  lie  down  and  sleep  a  little,  if  you  can. 
She  needs  it,  too.  Unless  you  send  for  me  be 
fore,  I  will  come  again  at  eight  o'clock.  Can 
you  keep  watch  until  then?  You  know  the  con 
ditions  and  the  treatment,  and  I  do  not  like 
to  leave  him  in  other  hands." 

The  nun  replied  with  a  quiet  smile.  He 
gave  her  a  few  more  directions  and  left  the 
convent.  She  tucked  Sister  Rodriguez  in  her 
little  cot  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and,  in 
spite  of  her  protests,  made  her  remain  there. 

Sister  Rodriguez  had  once  been  a  "novice" 
under  this  stern  mistress,  and  the  habit  of 
obedience  was  strong.  The  child  she  loved 
seemed  out  of  danger,  and  she  felt  weary  and 

43 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

relaxed.  Soon  her  regular  breathing  showed 
that  she  was  asleep. 

Sister  Philomene  sat  in  a  chair  at  the  foot 
of  the  crib,  facing  the  small  patient.  She  had 
never  before  taken  a  really  appraising  look  at 
him.  She  did  it  now,  as  he  lay  in  a  seeming 
stupor  before  her.  The  deep  flush  of  the  night 
had  given  place  to  pallor,  and  the  little  face 
was  almost  as  white  as  the  pillow  on  which 
it  lay.  Against  this  whiteness  the  baby's  tum 
bled  yellow  curls  were  very  attractive.  So 
were  the  blue  veins  in  his  temples  and  the  pa 
thetic  droop  of  his  lips,  and  the  long  golden 
lashes  on  the  cheeks  that  somehow  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  their  plumpness  in  this  short  time. 

Sister  Philomene  recalled  his  face  as  she  had 
always  seen  it,  with  the  blue  eyes  dancing,  the 
tiny  teeth  flashing,  the  dimples  all  in  evidence, 
while  the  baby  voice  gurgled  to  her  in  the  pure 
delight  of  living.  It  seemed  impossible  that 
this  was  the  same  child.  Verily  Frederick 
Addison  Malcolm,  master  of  all  he  surveyed 
at  two,  had  been  suddenly  overthrown,  and  his 
downfall  was  a  tragic  one. 

Sister  Philomene  mentally  reviewed  what 
she  had  heard  of  his  history.  His  father  had 
died  within  a  year  of  his  birth,  and  his  young 
mother  had  followed  in  ten  months.  She  had 
been  a  convent  girl,  and  an  especial  protegee  of 
44 


Surrender  of   Sister   Philomene 

the  Mother  Superior.  She  had  no  near  rela 
tives;  she  had  herself  been  brought  up  in  the 
institution,  and  her  last  prayer  had  been  that 
her  baby  might  find  a  refuge  there  for  a  time 
among  the  nuns  who  had  been  so  good  to  her. 

Dying  as  she  was,  she  had  realized  what 
his  place  would  be  among  them  all.  Who 
could  fail  to  love  Frederick?  She  had  been 
right.  Only  one  had  resisted  his  charm,  and 
that  was  she  herself — Sister  Philomene.  Self- 
reproach  stirred  in  the  woman's  soul.  If  he 
had  died  she  would  have  found  it  hard  to  for 
give  herself  —  she  knew  that.  She  made  a 
mental  plea  in  her  own  defence. 

"  If  he  had  been  a  poor  or  unattractive  child," 
she  reflected,  honestly,  "  I  would,  I  think,  have 
felt  more  interest  in  him.  But  he  will  be  rich 
and  is  lovely/' 

She  studied  him  silently.  His  breathing 
had  become  less  labored,  and  the  drawn  lines 
in  his  forehead  had  relaxed  when  the  pain 
ceased.  As  Sister  Philomene  looked  and  pon 
dered  Frederick  Addison  suddenly  opened  his 
blue  eyes  full  upon  her.  For  a  moment  there 
was  no  expression  in  them  save  a-  deep  drow 
siness,  but  as  she  rose  and  went  to  the  head 
of  the  crib  the  old  bright  light  flashed  in 
them,  and  the  baby's  lips  parted  in  one  of  his 
irresistible  smiles. 

45 


Tales  of  the   Cloister 

He  lifted  both  arms  with  a  sigh  of  perfect 
content. 

"Chicker  Menie/'  he  said,  hoarsely. 

She  bent  over  him  with  one  of  the  rare  smiles 
which  so  softened  her  stern  face. 

"Sister  Philomena  is  here,"  she  said,  gently. 
"  Frederick  must  be  a  good  boy  and  keep  very 
quiet,  or  the  doctor  will  have  to  come  again 
and  give  him  more  medicine." 

He  sat  up,  his  croupy  cough  filling  the  room. 
Sister  Rodriguez  heard  it  and  ran  to  him,  but 
he  turned  from  her  whom  he  loved  dearly  to 
the  sombre  eyes  of  the  nun  who  stood  beside 
him. 

"Fweddie  yants  to  be  yocked  by  Chicker 
Menie,"  he  announced.  He  leaned  towards 
her,  his  arms  outstretched,  his  lips  quivering, 
his  blus  eyes  full  of  the  love  which  the  aloof 
ness  of  the  woman  had  never  killed  in  his  baby 
soul. 

"Fweddie  chick,"  he  repeated.  "Fweddie 
yants  Chicker  Menie  to  yock  him." 

Sister  Rodriguez  turned  away,  her  eyes  dim. 

"If  she  rebuffs  him  now,"  she  thought,  "I 
ant  afraid  I  can  never  feel  quite  the  same  to 
Sister  Philomene. 

She  did  not.  He  thought  she  had,  and  the 
big  tears  fell  on  the  thin  cheeks,  for  Freder 
ick  Addison  sick  lacked  some  of  the  sturdy 
46 


CROONING   THE    LITTLE    LULLABY    HE    HAD    DEMANDED 


Surrender   of   Sister   Philomene 

pride  and  independence  of  Frederick  Addison 
well.  The  hot  drops  melted  the  thin  crust  of 
ice  over  the  woman's  heart.  She  leaned  for 
ward  and  lifted  him  out  of  the  cradle  and  into 
her  lap,  cuddling  him  to  her  and  kissing  his 
wet  eyes  tenderly.  His  curly  head  crept  close 
to  her  face,  and  his  little  hand  stole  under  the 
linen  that  covered  her  bosom  and  found  a  rest 
ing  place  over  her  heart.  The  tears  still  lay 
on  his  cheeks,  but  his  lips  smiled  in  uncon 
scious  triumph. 

The  Sisters,  coming  in  the  early  morning  to 
see  how  he  had  fared,  checked  their  steps  on 
the  threshold  and  gazed  in  awe. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  croupy  alarm  of 
the  night  before  the  baby  slept  a  natural  sleep, 
his  damp  curls  clinging  to  his  brow,  his  lips 
parted  in  his  old-time  smile,  his  small  hand 
under  the  nun's  linen  neck-band  guarding  the 
citadel  he  had  stormed. 

And  over  him  hung  the  transfigured  face  of 
his  "Chicker  Menie,"  her  softened  eyes  fast 
ened  on  him  with  the  "mother  look"  they 
had  never  held  before,  her  willing  arms  hold 
ing  him  in  a  close  embrace,  and  her  voice  croon 
ing  the  little  song  he  had  royally  demanded 
before  he  drifted  out  on  the  sea  of  childish 
dreams. 

47 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 


HIS  is  a  story  you  must  not  pub 
lish,  because  it  seems  so  improb 
able.  Persons  who  don't  know 
anything  about  convent  life — and, 
for  that  matter,  those  who  think  they  know  all 
about  it — will  say  it  could  not  have  happened. 
But,  as  it  did  happen  right  under  my  own  eyes, 
and  I  helped  it  along  all  I  could,  I  can  testify 
that  every  word  of  it  is  true. 

Of  course,  I  cannot  tell  it  in  a  dramatic  way, 
as  writers  do;  so  I  will  jot  down  the  facts  in 
the  best  English  I  know,  and  if  you  decide  to 
use  it,  you  may  change  and  polish  it  up  as 
much  as  you  please.  Then  if  people  say  it 
didn't  happen,  why,  just  send  them  to  me. 

To  begin  at  the  beginning.  The  episode,  if 
that  is  what  it  should  be  called,  occurred  last 
year,  a  few  months  before  I  was  graduated. 
I  was  up  to  my  eyes  in  work,  for,  besides  the 
regular  course,  I  had  taken  French  and  music 
and  all  the  other  extras,  and  we  were  having 
51 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Commencement  rehearsals  every  day,  and 
Sister  Cecilia  was  always  poking  her  head  into 
the  class-room  and  announcing  that  she  "want 
ed  Miss  Iverson  for  a  few  minutes."  I  played 
the  piano  in  one  number  of  the  programme, 
and  the  harp  in  another,  and  the  zither  in  some 
thing  else;  and  besides  all  that  I  sang  in  two 
or  three  of  the  choruses.  I  had  been  with  Sis 
ter  Cecilia  so  many  years  that  I  knew  her  ways 
and  ideas,  and  when  she  was  very  much  rush 
ed  I  helped  her  to  drill  some  of  the  girls. 

I  don't  mention  all  these  things  to  show  you 
that  I  was  a  musical  prodigy,  but  that  you 
may  understand  that  the  usual  discipline  was 
a  little  relaxed.  I  was  coming  and  going 
from  one  part  of  the  convent  to  another  pretty 
much  as  I  pleased. 

Well,  during  those  weeks  I  saw  a  great  deal 
of  Sister  Chrysostom.  She  was  a  musician, 
and  a  good  one — oh,  if  you  could  have  heard 
her  sing!  Everybody  said  she  was  sure  to  be 
Sister  Cecilia's  successor,  and  I  think  Sister 
Cecilia  thought  so  too,  for  she  was  very  nice 
to  her  and  taught  her  all  she  knew. 

Sister  Chrysostom  was  Sister  Cecilia's  first 
assistant,  chief  counsellor,  and  general  sup 
port  during  those  few  months,  and  we  girls 
were  glad  of  it.  Sister  Cecilia  used  to  get  ex 
cited  and  have  nervous  crises  which  were  very 
52 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 

bad  for  us  all,  but  Sister  Chrysostom  never 
lost  her  head,  nor  her  cool,  calm  manner.  She 
had  a  lovely  face  and  sang  like  an  angel,  and 
looked  as  if  she  had  had  a  past.  So  we  girls 
all  adored  her  and  raved  over  her  and  didn't 
mind  when  she  snubbed  us,  which  she  did 
most  of  the  time.  There  was  nothing  senti 
mental  about  Sister  Chrysostom,  but  there  was 
something  very  interesting,  and  I  used  to  look 
at  her  and  wish  I  knew  what  it  was.  Per 
haps  that  is  why  I  found  out. 

You  know  how  the  "Day  School  side"  of 
the  convent  is  arranged.  When  you  pass  the 
big  double  doors  that  open  from  the  street, 
you  find  yourself  in  a  square  entrance  hall, 
with  a  small  reception-room  at  the  right  and 
a  flight  of  stairs  at  the  left,  leading  down  to 
the  kindergarten.  Directly  in  front  of  you 
are  two  more  swinging  doors,  and  when  you 
have  passed  those  you  find  yourself  in  a  long 
corridor,  with  rows  of  doors  on  the  right  and 
left.  These  doors,  you  remember,  all  lead  into 
small  music-rooms,  and  in  each  room  a  girl  is 
practising  on  the  piano.  The  din  is  some 
thing  dreadful,  of  course,  for  each  is  playing 
a  different  thing,  and  most  of  them  haven't 
half  learned  it. 

During  rehearsal  weeks  it  was  Sister  Chrys- 
ostom's  duty  to  go  up  and  down  this  long  cor- 
53 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

ridor,  dropping  into  the  different  rooms  and  in 
spiring  the  girls  to  fresh  efforts.  Sometimes 
she  would  sit  down  and  talk  with  them  about 
their  music,  and  point  out  their  mistakes,  and 
correct  their  technique,  and  so  on.  It  was 
really  a  kind  of  supplementary  lesson,  and 
they  adored  her  so  that  they  actually  paid  at 
tention  to  what  she  said,  and  got  some  good 
from  it.  Once  in  a  long  time  she  would  speak 
of  other  things.  Of  course,  the  girls  were  al 
ways  trying  to  make  her  do  this,  but  they 
didn't  often  succeed.  When  they  did  it  was 
interesting.  We  used  to  meet  and  compare 
notes.  It  was  plain  to  all  of  us  that  Sister  Chrys- 
ostom  had  not  stepped  right  out  of  a  class-room 
into  a  nun's  habit,  as  so  many  of  the  Sisters 
had.  She  had  seen  life.  She  was  really  a 
woman  of  the  world.  She  understood  human 
nature — and  we  could  see  that  our  point  of 
view  amused  her. 

In  the  convent,  of  course,  the  greenest  girls 
put  on  airs,  in  a  way,  over  the  nuns.  The 
least  experienced  feels  that  she  has  more  world 
ly  wisdom  than  the  Sisters,  and  usually  she 
is  right.  The  day  pupils  live  at  home  and 
have  their  evenings  for  amusement,  not  to 
speak  of  their  Saturdays  and  Sundays.  Most 
of  them  have  big  brothers  and  sisters  who  are 
in  society,  and  the  girls  get  more  information 
54 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 

from  them  than  they  dream  they  are  giving. 
As  for  the  boarders,  they  have  their  long  vaca 
tions  at  home — and  they  make  the  most  of  them ! 

All  this  has  really  nothing  to  do  with  the 
story,  and  I  do  not  know  why  I  am  writing 
it,  for  you  understand  these  things  much  bet 
ter  than  I  do.  But  I  think  it  came  to  me  be 
cause  I  suddenly  remembered  how  we  girls 
used  to  sit  in  the  garden  and  talk  about  Sis 
ter  Chrysostom,  and  how  we  analyzed  the  dif 
ference  between  her  and  the  other  Sisters,  and 
how  cheap  we  used  to  feel  sometimes  when 
she  pricked  the  poor  little  bubble  of  our  con 
ceit.  Please  leave  that  in  about  the  bubble; 
I  think  it's  rather  good,  though  perhaps  I  have 
heard  the  expression  somewhere. 

Well,  now  I  must  go  back  a  little.  You  see 
I  don't  know  how  to  tell  a  story — I  don't  under 
stand  what  parts  to  put  first.  But  from  this 
point  on  I'll  tell  things  as  they  happened. 

One  day  in  January,  Sister  Chrysostom 
came  into  one  of  the  little  music  -  rooms 
where  I  was  sitting  alone,  banging  away  on 
the  Sixth  Hungarian  Rhapsodic  There  were 
eight  of  us  practising  it  that  week,  and  we 
brought  tears  of  anguish  to  poor  Sister  Cecilia's 
eyes.  Sister  Chrysostom  sat  down  beside  me 
and  made  as  many  criticisms  as  she  thought 
I  could  bear,  and  then  she  leaned  back  in  her 
55 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

chair,  and  I  knew  she  was  going  to  talk!  Of 
course  I  went  right  on  playing — I  knew  enough 
for  that.  If  we  stopped,  Sister  Chrysostom 
always  left.  But  I  kept  to  the  first  two  pages, 
which  I  knew  pretty  well,  and  played  them 
over  and  over  very  softly.  Sister  Chrysostom 
saw  through  it,  for  her  lips  twitched;  but  she 
sat  for  a  time  without  speaking,  and  I  played 
on  and  waited. 

At  last  she  said,  "May,  do  you  ever  go  to 
the  theatre?" 

I  thought  I  would  drop  off  the  piano-stool! 
In  the  first  place,  she  had  never  called  me 
"May"  before;  you  know  how  formal  they 
always  are.  In  my  graduation  year  it  was 
"Miss  Iverson"  with  all  of  them,  no  matter 
how  many  years  they  had  known  me,  and  I 
hadn't  known  her  a  year,  for  she  had  just 
come  to  the  convent  the  fall  before,  from  some 
other  institution.  And  then,  for  her  to  speak 
of  the  theatre! 

I  kept  as  cool  as  I  could  and  answered,  as 
if  I  thought  the  question  the  most  natural 
one  in  the  world,  that  I  went  to  the  matinee 
every  Saturday,  and  sometimes  to  an  evening 
performance.  I  said  papa  would  only  let  me 
go  in  the  evening  if  it  was  Shakspere  or  some 
thing  very  good;  but  that  my  married  sister, 
Mrs.  George  R.  Verbeck,  always  gave  me 
56 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 

matinee  tickets,  whether  the  play  was  good  or 
not.  She  knew  how  I  loved  to  go,  and  anyhow 
she's  the  sweetest  thing  in  the  world.  I  call 
her  my  big  sister  because  she's  so  much  older 
than  I  am.  She's  twenty -eight — the  poor 
dear!  But  she  does  lovely  things  for  me,  and 
every  now  and  then  she  buys  a  box  for  the 
matinee  and  lets  me  ask  my  friends.  Of  course, 
she  has  loads  of  money  and  can  afford  it,  but 
lots  of  sisters  wouldn't  think  of  it.  I  know 
girls — but  I  am  running  away  from  my  story 
again. 

I  told  Sister  Chrysostom  all  about  Grace — 
that's  my  sister,  Mrs.  Verbeck — and  how  good 
she  was  to  me,  and  how  she'd  do  anything  in 
the  world  for  me,  but  Sister  Chrysostom  didn't 
pay  much  attention.  She  seemed  to  be  think 
ing.  Then  she  said : 

"  Did  you  ever  see  or  hear  of  a  company 
called  the  'Bannerton  Troubadours'?" 

I  remembered  them  right  off.  They  had 
been  at  the  Academy  of  Music  the  year  be 
fore  in  a  play  called  "Every-day  Frolics,"  or 
something  of  that  kind.  There  was  no  plot — 
just  a  lot  of  singing  and  dancing,  and  what 
they  called  "specialties."  I  didn't  go. 

I  told  Sister  Chrysostom  I  hadn't  seen  them, 
but  that  they  were  coming  to  the  Academy 
again  in  March,  for  I  had  looked  up  all  the 
57 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

coming  plays  and  made  a  list  for  Grace  of 
the  ones  I  wanted  to  see.  I  remembered  that 
I  marked  'most  every  one,  and  Grace  laughed 
when  she  looked  at  the  list.  But  I  hadn't 
marked  the  "Bannerton  Troubadours,"  and  I 
didn't  know  just  what  time  in  March  they 
were  coming,  for  the  date  had  not  been  set. 

Sister  Chrysostom  hesitated  for  a  moment 
and  then  said : 

"  When  you  learn  the  dates  I  wish  you  would 
tell  me.  There  is  a  girl  in  that  company  whom 
I  used  to  know.  I  shall  be  interested  to  feel 
that  she  is  in  the  same  city."  And  then  she 
changed  the  subject  and  went  back  to  the  old 
music  again,  and  of  course  I  had  to  submit. 
But  you  can  just  believe  I  was  excited.  And 
curious?  My!  But  I  didn't  dare  ask  her  a 
single  question. 

One  thing  pleased  me,  though,  and  that  was 
she  didn't  ask  me  not  to  tell.  Of  course  I 
knew  she  meant  me  not  to,  and  I  never  breath 
ed  a  word  to  the  girls,  though  I  was  dying  to, 
for  wouldn't  it  have  simply  thrilled  them  to 
think  Sister  Chrysostom  knew  an  actress!  I 
didn't  tell  a  living  soul  but  Grace;  I  tell  her 
everything.  She  was  interested,  but  didn't 
say  much. 

Well,  now,  you  see,  I've  got  to  where  I  be 
gan  my  story,  which  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
58 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 

March  rehearsals.  At  first  after  my  talk 
with  Sister  Chrysostom  I  kept  thinking  of  it 
all  the  time;  but  as  the  weeks  went  on  I  was 
so  busy  it  dropped  from  my  mind.  I  had  al 
most  entirely  forgotten  it,  though  I  was  see 
ing  Sister  Chrysostom  every  day,  when  I  heard 
my  brother  Jack's  chum  say  to  him  at  the 
dinner-table  one  evening: 

"Let's  go  to  see  the  'Bannerton  Trouba 
dours  '  to-night. " 

It  gave  me  a  start,  I  can  tell  you!  But  I 
didn't  dare  to  show  that  I  was  interested,  for 
Jack  has  the  worst  way  of  getting  things  from 
me  that  I  don't  want  to  tell.  But  as  soon  as 
I  got  away  from  the  table  I  simply  flew  for 
the  evening  paper  and  found  the  announce 
ment.  "The  Troubadours"  were  in  town: 
this  was  Monday,  and  they  were  to  open  at 
the  Academy  that  evening.  So  you  see  I  had 
almost  slipped  up  on  my  promise  to  Sister 
Chrysostom.  Those  dreadful  rehearsals  had 
driven  everything  else  out  of  my  head. 

However,  it  was  all  right,  after  all,  I 
thought,  for  she  merely  wanted  to  know  when 
they  were  in  town,  and  I  could  tell  her  the  next 
morning.  They  were  to  leave  Thursday,  but 
anyhow  she'd  have  two  days  to  think  about 
her  old  friend  as  being  in  the  same  city  with  her. 

The  next  morning  I  saw  her  hurrying  along 
59 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

the  convent  hall,  and  I  followed  her.  She 
looked  almost  annoyed  when  I  stopped  her, 
for  she  must  have  been  very  busy,  but  my 
first  words  made  her  attentive  enough.  When 
I  said  "Sister  Chrysostom,  I  want  to  tell  you 
that  the  '  Bannerton  Troubadours '  are  in 
town,"  her  whole  face  changed.  Usually  she 
was  so  calm  you  couldn't  imagine  anything 
could  shake  her,  and  her  lips  had  a  queer  lit 
tle  curl  to  them  that  was  almost  sarcastic.  We 
girls  dreaded  it.  We  used  to  see  it  coming 
and  change  the  subject,  whatever  it  was.  We 
knew  we'd  made  some  break.  But  when  I 
mentioned  the  "Bannerton  Troubadours"  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  never  really  seen  Sister  Chrys 
ostom  before;  it  was  as  if  she  had  dropped  a 
mask.  First  she  was  excited,  and  her  eyes 
shone  and  she  drew  a  long  breath.  Then 
over  her  whole  face  came  the  sweetest,  soft 
est,  dearest  expression,  and  her  eyes  looked 
as  Grace's  do  sometimes  when  she's  watch 
ing  her  little  boy  and  thinks  no  one  sees  her. 
I  could  have  hugged  her — Sister  Chrysostom, 
I  mean — but  she  didn't  give  me  a  chance.  She 
caught  my  hand  and  drew  me  into  a  music- 
room  that  happened  to  be  empty,  and  she  closed 
the  door  and  stood  with  her  back  to  it.  Then 
she  said,  "Now  tell  me  all  you  know  about  it, 
quickly." 

60 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 

Well,  I  told  her.  It  wasn't  much,  of  course, 
and  then  I  waited  to  see  if  she'd  tell  me  any 
thing.  She  did.  She  told  me  the  whole  story 
in  one  sentence.  She  said: 

"  My  only  sister  is  in  that  company,  May — " 
and  then  she  added,  under  her  breath,  "Oh,  if 
I  could  see  her!" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "she'll  come  to  see  you, 
won't  she?"  You  know  their  friends  can 
come  and  see  the  Sisters  and  have  a  happy 
visit  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  an  iron  grat 
ing  and  talking  to  them.  I've  had  to  do  that 
once  or  twice  since  I  was  graduated,  and  it 
just  makes  me  sick.  But  I  was  talking  about 
Sister  Chrysostom. 

She  shook  her  head  and  said,  very  sadly, 
"  No,  she  does  not  know  that  I  am  here.  Even 
if  she  did,  she  would  not  come."  Then  all  the 
brightness  faded  out  of  her  face,  and  she 
looked  her  old  self  again.  Even  the  sarcastic 
little  lines  around  her  mouth  came  back.  She 
passed  her  hand  across  her  forehead,  and  when 
she  spoke  again  her  voice  seemed  tired.  She 
said:  "Thank  you  for  telling  me,  May.  She 
is  my  little  sister.  She  is  only  twenty  now, 
and  I  have  not  seen  her  since  she  was  twelve. 
When  we  were  together  no  two  sisters  ever 
loved  each  other  more.  I  really  brought  her 
up  until  I — came  here.  My  people  opposed 
61 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

my  entering  the  convent,  and  none  of  them 
wrote  to  me.  Four  years  ago  a  friend  told 
me  Clara  had  gone  on  the  stage — also  against 
the  wishes  of  the  family,  of  course.  She  has 
married  a  theatrical  man,  this  Mr.  Bannerton, 
and  plays  the  leading  part  in  his  comedy,  or 
whatever  it  is.  My  friend  said  Clara  asked 
very  particularly  that  I  should  not  be  told 
of  the  career  she  had  chosen,  as  of  course 
she  felt  that  I  would  disapprove  of  it.  And 
somehow  I  got  the  impression  that  something 
was  wrong,  and  I  have  been  miserable  ever 
since." 

You  can  imagine  how  I  felt.  I  thought  of 
Grace  and  how  awful  it  would  be  if  she  and  I 
were  separated.  Then  the  wildest  kind  of  an 
idea  flashed  into  my  mind,  and  I  spoke  right 
out  before  I  had  time  to  think. 

"Sister,"  I  said,  "if  she  doesn't  come  to  see 
you,  why  don't  you  go  to  her?" 

I  shall  never  forget  the  look  she  gave  me. 
There  was  indignation  in  it,  and  reproach, 
and  something  else  that  hurt  me  most  of  all — 
regret  for  the  confidence  she  had  given  me. 
She  turned  without  a  word  and  opened  the 
door  to  leave  the  room,  but  I  caught  her  hand 
and  held  her.  I  had  to  get  out  of  this  some 
way,  and  what  Jack  calls  one  of  my  "lucid 
moments"  came  to  me.  I  drew  her  back  into 
62 


WHY  DON'T  YOU  GO  TO  HER  ?'  " 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 

the  room  and  talked  to  her  my  very  fastest, 
which  is  pretty  fast! 

"Sister,"  I  said,  "I  beg  you  will  at  least 
listen.  I  know  what  I  say,  and  I  can  arrange 
it  all.  The  'Troubadours'  give  a  matinee  to 
morrow,  Wednesday.  It  begins  at  two  and 
ends  at  five.  The  Academy  is  only  six  blocks 
from  the  convent.  My  sister  will  lend  me  her 
carriage.  I  will  have  it  here  at  three  and  drive 
you  over  there;  we'll  time  it  to  get  there  be 
tween  the  first  and  second  acts.  You  can  see 
your  sister,  and  I'll  have  you  back  in  the  con 
vent  within  an  hour." 

Sister  Chrysostom  pushed  my  hands  away. 
"You  are  insane,"  she  said  —  and  then  she 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  Wild  as 
the  plan  was,  she  was  actually  considering  it, 
and  I  could  see  that  she  was  tempted.  I  could 
hardly  stand  still  with  the  romance  of  it  all. 
I  never  thought  so  fast  in  my  life.  She  just 
stood  there  without  saying  a  word,  and  I  went 
right  on  planning. 

"I'll  tell  Grace  all  about  it  to-night,"  I  said, 
"and  get  her  to  help  us."  (My!  but  I  liked 
that  word  us  /)  "  She  will,  I  promise  you ;  she 
was  graduated  at  this  convent  herself — years 
and  years  and  years  ago,  but  still  she  remem 
bers  it.  She'll  arrange  about  the  carriage  and 
about  getting  into  the  theatre.  Sister  Cecilia 
63 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

will  be  up  in  the  Commencement  hall  all  after 
noon,  and  you'll  be  on  duty  in  these  rooms. 
If  they  miss  you  from  one,  they'll  think  you're 
in  one  of  the  others.  But  they  can't  miss  you, 
for  we  won't  be  gone  much  more  than  half  an 
hour." 

Sister  Chrysostom  turned  and  looked  at  me 
with  her  queer  little  smile.  "How  about  the 
portress?"  was  all  she  said,  but  I  felt  as  if  she 
had  poured  ice-water  over  me.  Of  course  the 
portress  was  the  one  big  obstacle.  There  she 
stood,  at  the  door,  opening  and  shutting  it  and 
gazing  through  and  through  every  one  that 
came  in  and  out.  And  if  the  last  trump  sound 
ed,  she  wouldn't  answer  it  until  she  had  those 
doors  locked  and  those  keys  tucked  away 
just  so. 

As  I  said,  the  mention  of  her  was  chilling, 
but  my  blood  was  up,  and  I  wasn't  going  to 
give  in  now.  I  set  my  teeth  and  went  ahead. 
I  said,  very  airily :  "  Oh,  never  mind  the  por 
tress;  I'll  arrange  about  her,"  and  then  sud 
denly  another  inspiration  came  to  me.  Two 
"lucid  moments"  in  the  same  day  would  have 
surprised  Jack.  They  surprised  me !  I  said : 
"  Grace  has  a  long  black  ulster  that  reaches  to 
the  floor.  I'll  bring  it  in  a  bundle  to-morrow 
morning,  with  a  black  hat  and  gloves  and  a 
big  black  veil.  It  will  all  make  a  large  bun- 
64 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 

die,  but  perhaps  the  girls  will  think  it's  my 
valedictory  that  I've  been  working  on  so  hard." 
This  was  a  joke,  for  I  was  in  high  spirits,  but 
Sister  Chrysostom  never  smiled.  I  think  she 
might  have.  She  merely  looked  at  me  strange 
ly,  and  said  very  slowly: 

"You  extraordinary  girl — I  really  believe  it 
might  be  done."  Then  she  turned,  with  a 
queer,  almost  desperate  gesture,  and  whisper 
ed  to  herself,  "  It  cannot  be  wrong,  for  I  know 
the  child  needs  me." 

I  could  hardly  believe  my  ears.  Can  you 
imagine  it?  And  doesn't  it  prove  what  I  said 
about  her  being  a  woman  of  the  world?  There 
she  was,  taking  it  quietly,  when  any  other 
nun —  But  there  is  no  use  of  making  com 
parisons,  for  at  the  mere  suggestion  I  think 
any  other  nun  in  the  convent  would  have 
fainted. 

She  went  on  very  coolly,  though  there  was 
a  queer,  excited  look  in  her  eyes: 

"You  could  bring  the  bundle  into  this  mu 
sic-room,  because  it  is  the  one  nearest  the  main 
entrance.  It  could  be  put  away  in  the  closet 
until  I  need  it.  Just  before  three  I  could  slip 
in  here,  take  off  my  veil  and  head-piece,  leave 
them  in  the  closet,  put  on  the  ulster,  the  hat, 
the  veil  (it  must  be  very  heavy),  the  gloves — " 
Then  she  stopped  and  bit  her  lips.  "  But  how 
E  65 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

shall  we  get  out  when  I  have  them  on?"  Here 
I  actually  had  another  flash.  I  never  did  such 
thinking  in  my  life. 

"We'll  have  Grace  herself  come  for  us/'  I 
said;  "shell  ring  and  come  in  the  front  en 
trance  as  usual.  She's  a  privileged  character, 
you  know,  and  she  roams  about  to  suit  her 
self,  and  often  leaves  the  convent  by  the  en 
trance  on  the  other  side  of  the  building.  I'll 
bring  her  to  the  music-room  where  you  are, 
and  we'll  watch  our  chance.  When  the  corri 
dor  is  clear  and  the  portress  busy  at  the  door, 
we  will  all  stroll  to  the  other  side  of  the  build 
ing  and  leave  by  that  entrance.  The  portress 
there  will  think  you're  a  friend  of  Grace's. 
Any  of  the  Sisters  or  girls  who  meet  us  will 
think  the  same  thing.  Out  we  go.  When  we 
come  back  we'll  come  through  this  entrance, 
and  the  portress  will  think  you  are  some  mem 
ber  of  the  family  coming  to  hear  me  rehearse. 
Everything  is  lax  just  now  on  account  of  these 
rehearsals.  We  can  do  it. " 

Sister  Chrysostom  shrugged  her  shoulders 
with  an  odd  little  gesture  she  had.  It  signi 
fied  her  final  decision  on  any  point.  We  girls 
used  to  think  there  was  some  foreign  blood  in 
her  veins.  Then  she  said:  "We  can  try  it. 
Will  you  make  all  the  arrangements?"  and 
walked  away  without  another  word. 
66 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 

I  went  from  school  to  Grace's  house,  and 
found  her  dressing  for  a  dinner-party,  but  I 
made  her  send  her  maid  away  while  I  told 
her  all  about  the  plan.  At  first  she  was  horri 
fied  and  made  objections  and  preached,  but  in 
the  end  she  promised  to  help  us,  like  a  dear, 
as  I  knew  she  would.  She  gave  me  the  ulster 
and  things,  and  I  walked  off  with  the  bundle. 
It  made  me  look  like  a  laundress  carrying 
home  the  week's  wash.  I  got  it  up  to  my  room 
without  anybody's  seeing  it,  and  all  the  even 
ing  I  was  so  excited  I  couldn't  talk,  and  when 
I  got  to  bed  I  couldn't  sleep. 

I  was  at  the  convent  bright  and  early  in  the 
morning,  but  I  had  thought  better  of  the  bun 
dle,  so  I  carried  the  things  in  Jack's  dress-suit 
case.  Sister  Vincent  looked  at  it  as  I  went  in, 
but  I  suppose  she  thought  it  held  music,  es 
pecially  as  I  walked  into  the  first  music-room 
and  left  it  there.  But  you  may  believe  I  kept 
the  key  in  my  pocket  until  one  o'clock.  Then 
I  had  a  chance  to  slip  it  into  Sister  Chrysos- 
tom's  hand  when  I  met  her  in  the  hall.  Her 
fingers  closed  on  it  in  the  cutest  way. 

When  three  o'clock  came  I  was  so  excited 
I  could  hardly  breathe,  for  of  course  if  we  were 
found  out  I'd  be  expelled,  and  I  don't  know 
what  would  have  happened  to  Sister  Chrysos- 
tom.  I  rushed  into  the  little  reception-room 
67 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

to  the  right  of  the  entrance.  Its  windows  look 
ed  into  the  street.  There  was  Grace's  car 
riage  driving  up,  and  I  saw  her  get  out.  Then 
the  coachman  drove  off,  and  I  knew  he  was 
going  round  to  the  other  entrance  in  the  next 
block.  I  slipped  back  and  waited  for  Grace 
in  the  inner  corridor,  beyond  the  swinging 
doors.  I  heard  the  bell  ring  and  the  big  key 
turn,  and  the  little  portress  gurgle  in  her  glee 
at  seeing  Grace.  She  likes  my  big  sister; 
every  one  does.  Then  Grace  told  the  portress 
she  would  go  and  find  me,  and  she  came  swing 
ing  along  the  hall  in  a  very  debonair  fashion, 
but  when  I  met  her  she  looked  frightened. 
She  said:  "You  monkey,  I'm  afraid  you're 
making  a  lot  of  trouble  for  us  all. "  She  hadn't 
time  to  say  more,  for  I  pulled  her  into  the  mu 
sic-room,  and  there  was  Sister  Chrysostom, 
and  Grace  became  the  woman  of  the  world  at 
once.  Mrs.  Verbeck  is  famous  for  her  charm 
ing  manner,  and  I  was  proud  of  her  when  I 
introduced  her,  but  I  was  proud  of  Sister  Chrys 
ostom,  too.  They  were  both  as  polished  as 
ivory  balls,  and  they  deserved  credit,  for  in 
their  hearts  they  were  scared  to  death. 

We  helped  Sister  Chrysostom  into  the  street 

things,  and  then  I  sallied  forth  to  look  over 

the  field.     I  never  had  such  an  exciting  time 

in  my  life,  and  I  believe  I  would  have  scream- 

68 


As  Told  by  May  iverson 

ed  if  anybody  had  touched  me.  The  corridor 
was  not  empty,  so  we  waited  a  few  moments. 
Then  we  all  strolled  out  together,  Grace  and 
I  talking  as  carelessly  as  we  could.  Sister 
Chrysostom  looked  very  natural  in  her  street 
things,  and  that  was  comforting;  I  had  fear 
ed  she  wouldn't.  When  we  turned  off  the 
main  corridor  into  the  left  wing  of  the  build 
ing  I  thought  all  was  lost,  for  we  met  one  of 
Grace's  former  teachers  face  to  face,  and  of 
course  she  stopped.  I  drew  Sister  Chrysos 
tom  on,  but  my  heart  stood  still  as  I  listened, 
for  Sister  George  said,  "Reverend  Mother  was 
asking  for  you  yesterday,  Mrs.  Verbeck;  she 
wishes  to  see  you,  I  think,  in  regard  to  the 
Commencement  music. " 

Grace  adores  Reverend  Mother,  and  I  thought 
she  would  have  dropped  us  then  and  there  and 
flown  to  her,  but  Sister  George  went  on,  "  She 
is  engaged  to-day,  but  may  I  tell  her  you  will 
come  to-morrow  afternoon?" 

Of  course  Grace  said  she  was  at  Reverend 
Mother's  service  at  all  times.  Then  we  all 
breathed  again. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  I  could  not  have  left  the 
convent  by  its  side  entrance  if  Grace  hadn't 
been  with  me.  Day  pupils  are  not  allowed  to 
use  it,  as  it  is  supposed  to  be  for  visitors  only. 
Grace  smiled  at  the  portress,  who  beamed  back 
69 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

at  her,  and  we  all  three  strolled  out  of  the  door 
and  into  the  crisp,  cold  air.  I  wondered  then, 
and  I've  often  wondered  since,  how  Sister 
Chrysostom  felt  at  that  moment.  Of  course 
we  could  not  see  her  face  under  the  veil,  and 
she  didn't  speak.  She  took  her  place  in  the 
carriage  without  a  word,  and  we  followed  her. 
The  coachman  had  his  orders  from  Grace, 
and  the  horses  started  off  with  a  bound.  It 
couldn't  have  been  much  more  than  five  min 
utes  before  we  were  at  the  stage  door  of  the 
Academy. 

Here,  too,  Grace  had  fixed  everything.  That 
sister  of  mine  is  a  treasure.  She  showed  the 
doorkeeper  a  pass,  and  he  let  us  in,  and  a  very 
grimy  boy  led  us  along  the  dirtiest,  darkest 
passage  I've  ever  seen.  Sister  Chrysostom 
caught  Grace's  arm  and  said :  "  You  will  not 
leave  me  for  a  moment,  will  you?  Do  not  per 
mit  us  to  be  separated." 

Grace  promised.  We  both  knew  how  the 
Sister  felt.  A  sailor  clinging  to  a  life-line  with 
the  under-tow  pulling  him  down  would  feel 
about  the  same  way,  I  think.  The  grimy 
boy  knocked  at  a  grimy  door  and  left  us  stand 
ing  before  it.  A  voice  said,  "Come  in,"  and  in 
we  went. 

I  had  always  supposed  that  actresses  had 
beautiful  dressing-rooms,  with  soft  carpets 
70 


As  Told  by  May  Iverson 

and  silk  hangings  and  lovely  curtains  and 
flowers.  Maybe  they  do  in  big  cities  in  the 
East,  but  they  don't  when  they  come  to  our 
Western  town.  That  room  was  about  six  feet 
long  and  four  feet  wide,  it  seemed  to  me,  and 
dirty!  The  dust  was  simply  thick.  When  we 
opened  the  door  a  cloud  of  it  seemed  to  rise 
and  settle  on  us.  The  place  was  so  small 
that  when  we  went  in  our  elbows  actually 
dug  into  one  another's  sides,  and  I  tripped  on 
a  stool  on  the  floor  and  almost  bowled  over  the 
others  like  a  lot  of  ten-pins.  There  was  a 
long  looking-glass  on  the  wall  just  opposite 
the  door,  and  a  girl  stood  in  front  of  it  with 
her  back  to  us.  Of  course  she  saw  us  reflect 
ed  there  and  she  turned  around.  She  was  dress 
ed  except  for  her  gown;  she  had  a  blond  wig 
on,  and  was  daubing  some  red  paint  on  her 
cheeks  with  a  funny  little  piece  of  fur.  She 
looked  young  and  tired,  and  her  lips  had  a 
peevish  curl. 

Sister  Chrysostom  threw  back  her  veil  and 
went  right  up  to  the  girl  and  took  her  in  her 
arms.  "My  little  sister,"  she  said,  "you 
don't  know  how  I've  hungered  for  you,"  and 
there  was  something  in  her  voice  that  brought 
the  tears  to  my  eyes.  I  turned  and  looked  at 
Grace;  her  cheeks  were  wet,  too.  Then  we 
heard  a  short  laugh,  and  we  both  glanced  up, 

71 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

The  girl  in  the  blond  wig  had  drawn  herself 
out  of  Sister  Chrysostom's  arms  and  stood 
looking  at  her  with  a  queer  smile. 

"Well,  Helen!"  she  said,  in  the  most  off 
hand  way  imaginable.  "What  on  earth 
brings  you  here?  Have  you  shaken  the  con 
vent?  I  always  thought  you  would  if  you 
got  a  chance.  There  isn't  much  convent  fe 
ver  in  our  blood!" 

She  picked  up  the  paint  she  had  been  using 
and  got  in  front  of  the  mirror  again.  "  Who 're 
your  friends?"  she  said,  daubing  away  with  her 
back  to  us,  but  looking  boldly  at  us  in  the  glass. 

Sister  Chrysostom  could  not  speak.  I  think 
she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  struck.  She  would 
have  preferred  a  blow.  My  big  sister  came 
forward — if  one  could  be  said  to  come  forward 
in  that  space.  She  smiled  as  sweetly  as  if  the 
girl  had  been  the  Queen  of  England. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Verbeck/'  she  said,  "and  this 
is  my  little  sister  May.  I  am  afraid  you  do 
not  understand  your  sister's  position,  Mrs. 
Bannerton.  She  has  not  left  the  convent ;  we 
brought  her  here  for  a  few  moments  with  you, 
because  she  loves  you,  and  has  not  seen  you 
for  so  many  years,  and  was  willing  to  under 
go  a  great  deal  to  have  another  look  at  you. 
We  must  take  her  away  almost  immediately. 
Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  each  other  alone. " 

72 


The  blond  girl  laughed  again.  "What  for?" 
she  said ;  "  we  haven't  any  secrets  to  talk  over. 
At  least  I  haven't.  Have  you,  Nell?  And  I 
hope  you  haven't  come  here  to  preach."  She 
put  on  her  dress  as  she  spoke;  it  was  one  of 
the  silk,  fluffy  things  that  stage  dancers  wear. 
It  was  short  and  very  low,  and  gave  me  quite 
a  shock  there  in  the  dressing-room.  I  don't 
think  she  had  much  delicate  feeling.  She  fas 
tened  it  and  fluffed  it  out  and  turned  round  to 
us  with  her  mouth  full  of  pins.  Her  whole 
manner  was  as  cool  and  off-hand  as  if  two  or 
three  actresses  from  the  next  dressing-room 
had  run  in  to  see  her. 

"Well,  I  suppose  you  three  are  up  to  some 
lark,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  sneer.  "This 
tale  of  devotion  is  all  very  well,  but  I  notice 
Nell  didn't  mind  leaving  me  when  I  was  a 
kid." 

If  you  print  this  story  you  must  put  in  some 
thing  here  about  the  contrast  between  the  vul 
gar-looking  girl  in  her  cheap  finery,  and  her 
paint  and  her  bare  arms  and  shoulders,  and 
the  beautiful  nun  who  sat  looking  up  at  her 
with  such  an  expression  of  suffering  in  her 
eyes  as  I  hope  I'll  never  see  in  any  eyes  again. 
I  can't  describe  the  thing,  but  I  felt  it  and  so 
did  Grace,  and  we  both  knew  that  we  were  look 
ing  at  a  tragedy. 

73 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Sister  Chrysostom  had  been  sitting  in  her 
chair  in  a  limp  heap,  as  if  something  that  held 
her  up  had  given  way,  but  she  rose  when  her 
sister  said  that  about  the  lark. 

"We  must  go,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
sounded  as  if  she  were  speaking  in  her  sleep, 
and  her  eyes  looked  that  way,  too.  The  blond 
girl  laughed  again.  She  had  the  most  un 
pleasant  laugh  I  ever  heard,  but  she  used  it 
often  enough. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  was  going  to  say,"  she 
said.  "  This  is  all  very  nice  for  you  people,  of 
course,  but  I'll  get  my  cue  in  a  minute — " 

Sister  Chrysostom  turned  her  eyes  towards 
her  and  yet  looked  as  if  she  didn't  see  her. 
You've  seen  that  expression;  it  isn't  pleasant. 
Then  she  spoke,  and  there  was  something  in 
her  voice  that  made  her  sister  turn  and  look 
squarely  at  her  for  the  first  time. 

"Clara,"  she  said,  "you  have  broken  my 
heart  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  It  is  a  fitting  pun 
ishment  for  the  thing  I  have  done — the  only 
punishment  I  could  have  felt.  If  you  had  re 
ceived  me  in  the  spirit  in  which  I  came  to  you, 
if  you  had  returned  the  love  I  have  given  you 
all  these  years,  I  should  have  gone  back  to  the 
convent  exulting.  It  is  true  that  I  left  you  for 
the  convent;  perhaps  I  did  wrong.  But  you 
have  punished  me  now  for  that  and  for  this, 

74 


As  Told  by   May  Iverson 

for  all  the  past  and  all  the  future.  You  are 
not  to  blame.  God  has  made  you  His  instru 
ment  of  chastisement.  Before  I  go,  is  there 
anything  in  the  world  I  can  do  for  you — is 
there  anything  I  can  say?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  blond  girl,  briefly. 

Sister  Chrysostom  turned  to  my  sister  and 
held  out  her  hands. 

"Take  me  away,"  she  said,  and  then  she 
went  all  to  pieces  and  cried  like  a  little  child. 
"Take  me  from  this  place — take  me  back." 

My  sister  turned  her  back  on  the  blond  girl, 
and  so  did  I.  Grace's  face  was  white  and  set — 
I  have  never  seen  her  look  so  angry.  We  drew 
the  veil  over  Sister  Chrysostom's  face,  and  we 
each  put  an  arm  around  her  and  half  carried 
her  out  into  the  grimy  passage-way.  We  met 
the  dirty  boy  coming  to  give  the  blond  girl  her 
cue,  and  we  heard  the  orchestra  striking  into 
the  music  I  suppose  she  was  going  to  dance. 
I  glanced  behind  and  the  girl  beckoned  to  me. 
Her  face  was  twisted  in  a  queer  way,  and  her 
cheeks  looked  a  sickly  white  under  their  paint. 
I  went  back  and  she  caught  my  hand. 

"I  had  to  do  it,"  she  gasped  out.  "It  was 
best  for  her  and  for  me.  She'll  stop  caring  for 
me  now  and  be  content  in  the  convent.  And 
if  I  had  been  nice  to  her  she'd  have  asked  me 
all  sorts  of  questions  that  I  couldn't  answer — 
75 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

that's  the  whole  truth  of  it.  I'd  rather  have 
her  think  me  brutal  than — well,  than  have  her 
know  the  truth.  Don't  you  ever  tell  her." 

Then  she  began  to  daub  her  face  again  with 
the  paint.  The  slovenly  boy  called  her,  and 
she  pushed  me  before  her  out  of  the  room.  A 
short,  fat  man  came  hurrying  down  the  pas 
sage,  and  swore  when  he  saw  her,  and  asked 
what  she  meant  by  being  late.  Her  skirts 
whisked  around  the  corner,  and  I  heard  clap 
ping  and  knew  she  had  gone  on  the  stage. 

Well,  that  is  all  there  was  to  it. 

Grace  had  helped  Sister  Chrysostom  into  the 
carriage  and  was  telling  the  coachman  to  drive 
fast.  We  got  back  to  the  convent,  and  Grace 
left,  and  Sister  Chrysostom  and  I  passed  the 
portress,  Sister  Vincent,  without  arousing  any 
suspicion.  There  were  several  strangers  at  the 
door,  and  we  walked  coolly  in  while  Sister 
Vincent  was  talking  to  them.  We  went  into 
the  music-room,  and  I  held  the  door  while  Sis 
ter  Chrysostom  took  off  Grace's  things  and  ar 
ranged  her  own  veil.  She  was  talking  to  her 
self  all  the  time  she  did  it.  She  said  the  same 
thing  twenty  times,  I  should  think,  like  a 
child  learning  to  spell  a  word. 

"It  was  a  just  punishment/'  she  said.     "I 
deserve  it — I  deserve  it." 
76 


Her  Audience  of  Two 


Her  Audience  of  Two 


NE — two — three — four.     One — two 

—  three — four. 

Ernestine's    fingers  thumped   out 

the  time  on  the  old  piano,  and  the 
tired  instrument,  worn  by  the  assaults  of  three 
generations  of  small  girls,  responded  with  a 
senile  tinkle  that  was  half  a  squeak.  Sister 
Cecilia  may  have  caught  a  peculiar  touch  of 
depression  in  the  labored  repetition  as  she  was 
passing  the  music-room.  A  sudden  impulse  led 
her  to  the  door,  though  the  sound  made  her 
sensitive  nerves  wince.  It  was  the  duty  of  her 
subordinates  to  supervise  the  practice  of  be 
ginners.  They  seldom  came  in  contact  with 
the  Sister  whose  fame  reached  far  beyond  the 
convent  walls,  within  which  her  gently  auto 
cratic  sway  in  the  department  of  music  was 
supreme.  It  was  her  province  to  criticise  the 
more  advanced  pupils,  to  train  the  voices  of 
the  nuns,  to  direct  the  convent  choir,  and,  in 
what  leisure  remained  from  these  occupations, 
79 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

to  devote  herself  to  the  composition  of  songs. 
The  concert  stage  and  half  the  drawing-rooms 
of  America  were  familiar  with  many  of  them. 
They  were  published  anonymously,  but  the 
identity  of  the  composer  was  an  open  secret, 
and  the  convent  was  the  richer  for  her  work. 
As  time  passed,  she  was  exempted  from  many 
of  the  routine  duties,  that  she  might  give  her 
self  effectively  to  the  music  she  loved,  and  put 
on  paper  the  masses  and  aves  that  welled  up 
in  her  heart.  The  pupils  adored  her.  They 
were  not  sure  she  knew  of  their  existence,  for 
her  usual  mood  was  one  of  serene  abstraction, 
but  they  loved  her  none  the  less  loyally  for 
her  seeming  aloofness  from  them. 

"Half  the  time/'  said  May  Iverson  on  one 
occasion,  "you'd  think  she  didn't  know  we 
were  alive  1  But  be  in  trouble  and  there  isn't 
one  of  the  Sisters  more  sympathetic.  She  is 
something  you  have  to  live  up  to." 

Sister  Cecilia  was  the  especial  friend  of  the 
small  children  in  the  convent.  Their  compan 
ionship  did  not  disturb  her  musical  reveries, 
and  they  followed  her  about  in  the  garden  and 
through  the  corridors,  drawn  to  her  by  some 
subtle  sympathy  which  neither  she  nor  they 
could  analyze,  yet  which  they  felt  to  the  core 
of  their  sensitive  little  hearts. 

"She  spoils  them,"  said  Sister  Philomene, 
80 


Her  Audience    of  Two 

tersely;  but  there  was  no  proof  of  this  unless 
her  popularity  with  them.  Now,  as  she  stood 
at  the  door  of  the  tiny  room,  her  soft  eyes 
had  an  unusually  quizzical  gleam.  She  had 
known  by  the  dreary,  recurrent  thump  she 
heard  that  some  infant  was  in  trouble,  but 
had  not  suspected  how  deep  the  abyss  of  woe 
until  she  looked  at  the  picture  before  her.  Er 
nestine  sat  practising  her  dreary  exercise. 
Unmindful  of  the  protests  of  the  yellow  keys, 
she  pounded  away  with  dogged  energy.  Re 
bellious  tears  were  on  her  fat  cheeks,  but  her 
German  braids  flapped  upon  her  back  through 
the  vigor  of  her  efforts.  Her  plump  legs  were 
far  too  short  to  reach  the  floor,  but  from  time 
to  time  they  made  abortive  dives  towards  the 
pedals  through  some  dim  artistic  purpose. 
On  her  feet  were  stout  German  boots,  with  sev 
eral  inches  of  heavy  woollen  stockings  show 
ing  between  them  and  the  sombre  frock  above. 
A  stiffly  starched  white  pinafore  lightened  the 
effect,  and  the  child's  yellow  hair,  blue  eyes, 
and  fair  Teutonic  skin  brought  all  the  sunlight 
to  a  focus  in  the  corner  where  she  labored. 
Care  weighed  upon  her  brow,  and  while  the 
nun  looked  the  big  tears  dropped  from  her 
cheeks  and  splashed  on  the  stained  keys;  but 
with  unflinching  courage  Ernestine,  aged 
seven,  worked  on.  Something  in  her  atti- 
F  81 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

tude,  and  the  faithful  efforts  of  the  chubby 
fingers,  touched  the  Sister,  used  though  she 
was  to  such  sad  sights.  Twenty  years  of 
teaching  and  cloistered  seclusion  had  not  dried 
up  the  fountain  of  sympathy  in  her  bosom. 
She  laid  a  hand  on  the  stiff  braids,  and,  at 
the  touch,  the  stoical  figure  relaxed  and  the 
unhappy  infant  looked  up  as  one  to  whom  the 
deliverer  had  come.  The  nun  sat  down  be 
side  her  and  pinched  her  pink  cheek. 

"Is  it  so  very  hard?"  she  asked,  lightly. 
"Or  is  it  because  the  sun  is  bright  and  some 
of  the  children  are  playing  in  the  garden?  If 
that  is  it,  every  little  girl  who  ever  played  the 
piano  has  felt  as  you  do,  and  some  of  those 
who  are  enjoying  themselves  now  will  be  prac 
tising  by  and  by,  you  know,  when  you  are 
having  your  sunshine  and  play." 

She  wiped  Ernestine's  eyes  with  her  hand 
kerchief  as  she  spoke,  and  talked  on  cheer 
fully,  ignoring  the  pathetic  sniffles  that  punc 
tuated  her  remarks.  "Or  is  it  Heimweh?" 
she  asked.  "You  are  a  little  girl  from  Ger 
many,  are  you  not?  And  Sister  Patience  is 
your  music  teacher?  She  told  me  of  you. 
She  says  you  practise  faithfully,  and  that 
some  day  you  will  be  a  good  musician." 

The  child  gulped  heavily  at  this  alluring 
prospect. 

82 


Her  Audience    of  Two 

"I  must/'  she  said,  dismally.  "My  mother 
has  said  so.  My  mother  sings — oh,  nobody 
sings  like  my  mother.  And  I  want  her — I 
want  that  I  see  her  now." 

Her  lips  trembled  again,  and  an  outburst 
seemed  imminent.  The  nun  lifted  her  quickly 
off  the  stool  and  stood  up.  She  felt  a  sudden 
and  strong  interest  in  the  forlorn  baby. 

"If  your  mother  sings,"  she  said,  "her  lit 
tle  girl  must  learn  to  play  her  accompaniments, 
of  course.  But  you  have  worked  enough  to 
day.  We  will  find  Sister  Patience  and  tell  her 
you  need  amusement  and  fresh  air,  and  ask 
her  if  she  will  not  excuse  you.  If  she  con 
sents,  I  will  find  some  nice  little  girl  for  you 
to  play  with.  To-morrow  you  will  not  be  so 
homesick." 

May  Iverson's  sharp  eyes  saw  the  two  as 
they  walked  down  the  long  corridor  that  led 
to  the  garden.  She  smiled  to  herself  as  she 
looked  after  them. 

"  I  wondered  how  long  it  would  take  to  bring 
those  two  together,"  she  said  to  the  class-mate 
who  wras  with  her;  "the  child  of  the  greatest 
living  contralto  and  the  nun  to  whom  music 
is  the  breath  of  life.  I  don't  believe  Sister 
Cecilia  knows  who  the  child  is,"  she  added, 
"for  Ernestine  came  only  last  week.  But 
some  law  has  drawn  them  together,  as  I  knew 
83 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

it  would.  Now  Ernestine  will  be  a  dear  little 
link  between  the  finest  musician  in  the  Order 
and  one  of  the  most  famous  singers  in  the 
world.  Madame  Holstein  is  singing  at  the 
Metropolitan  Opera-House  in  New  York  now/' 
she  continued,  expansively.  "  Later,  you  know, 
she  is  to  sing  in  the  West.  She  has  sent 
her  little  girl  here  for  a  few  months  because 
she  will  not  keep  her  in  hotels.  I  am  simply 
existing  until  I  hear  her  in  '  Le  Prophete. ' 
Fides  is  her  best  role.  Fancy  how  Sister 
Cecilia  would  love  to  hear  her,"  she  con 
tinued,  regretfully.  "  Poor,  dear  Cecilia,  who 
lives  for  music  and  never  hears  any  but  what 
we  have  in  this  convent!  It's  good,  of  course, 
but  not  to  be  compared  with  the  singing  of 
great  artists  like  Madame  Holstein.  She  has 
all  that  nature  and  art  and  years  of  the  best 
European  training  can  give.  New  York  has 
gone  mad  over  her.  Last  Friday  night,  when 
she  sang  Fides,  she  was  called  before  the  cur 
tain  eight  times!  The  newspapers  are  full  of 
her,  and  I  have  shown  Sister  Cecilia  all  the 
press  notices  during  the  opera  season.  Rev 
erend  Mother  wishes  her  to  see  them,  as  the 
criticisms  help  her  in  her  musical  work.  When 
she  discovers  Ernestine's  last  name  and 
knows  she  is  the  child  of  Holstein — "  Miss 
Iverson  stopped  and  smiled  in  sweet  anticipa- 
84 


Her  Audience    of  Two 

tion.  Then  she  caught  her  friend  around  the 
waist  and  waltzed  her  lightly  along  the  pol 
ished  floor. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  exclaimed,  when  they 
stopped,  "  I  have  discovered  a  secret  about  Sis 
ter  Cecilia?  She  is  starving  for  music.  That 
seems  absurd,  doesn't  it,  when  she  lives  in  an 
atmosphere  of  it  all  the  time.  But  I  think  I 
know  what  she  wants — she  is  hungry  for  a 
great  orchestra,  or  a  really  wonderful  human 
voice.  Sister  Edgar,  whose  voice  promised  so 
much,  died,  you  know.  That  almost  broke 
Cecilia's  heart.  And  now,  when  she  reads 
these  notices  I  give  her,  and  when  I  describe 
to  her  the  singing  I  hear  when  we  go  to  the 
opera,  it  is  pathetic  to  see  her  face.  Several 
times  her  eyes  have  filled  with  tears.  I  shall 
enjoy  telling  her  who  Ernestine  is." 

The  revelation  was  not  long  delayed,  for  she 
met  Sister  Cecilia  in  the  corridor  several  hours 
later,  and  was  rewarded  by  the  light  that 
flashed  in  the  nun's  eyes  as  she  told  her  story. 

"Madame  Holstein  has  only  this  one  child," 
said  May,  "and  she  could  not  live  away  from 
her;  so  she  brought  her  to  this  country  when 
she  came  for  the  season.  Ernestine  is  a  dear 
thing,  and  her  mother  wishes  to  have  her  where 
she  can  see  her  every  month  or  two.  I  know 
all  this,  because  my  sister,  Mrs.  George  Ver- 
85 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

beck,  is  a  friend  of  Madame  Holstein's.  They 
met  in  Germany,  and  Grace  is  to  entertain  her 
when  she  comes  here  in  February.  I  simply 
cannot  wait,  for,  of  course,  I  shall  meet  her." 

The  nun  smiled. 

"Dear  Miss  Iverson,"  she  said,  gently,  "I 
wonder  how  the  world  will  treat  you  when  you 
go  out  into  it  with  that  boundless  enthusiasm 
of  yours.  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  many 
disappointments  and  disillusions." 

May  looked  after  her  a  little  resentfully  as 
she  went  down  the  hall.  "She  actually 
thinks,"  she  murmured,  "that  she  knows 
more  about  life  than  I  do."  The  reflection 
cheered  Miss  Iverson,  who  sighed  in  happy 
contemplation  of  her  vast  experience  during 
two  summer  vacations. 

Ernestine  soon  grew  accustomed  to  her  new 
surroundings,  and  went  through  the  day  with 
placid  contentment  on  her  brow.  There  were 
attractive  small  girls  around  her,  and  had  she 
not  a  fascinating  new  friend,  "The  Sister 
Cecilia,"  as  she  called  her,  who  took  her  for 
walks  in  the  garden  and  told  her  stories  and, 
best  of  all,  listened  to  Ernestine's  own  stories 
of  her  mother?  It  was  a  singular  friendship, 
and  the  quiet  nun  heard  strange  tales  of  travel 
and  music  and  musicians  and  great  concerts — 
vivid  little  word-pictures  unconsciously  paint- 
86 


Her  Audience    of  Two 

ed  by  the  child  against  the  gray  background  of 
the  cloister.  Madame  Holstein  had  travelled 
far  with  her  chubby  little  girl,  and  Ernestine 
had  turned  wide-open,  intelligent  eyes  on  all 
she  saw.  Flooding  the  picture  was  an  atmos 
phere  of  German  home  life.  Herr  Holstein,  the 
husband  and  father,  was  an  eminent  scholar, 
held  in  Germany  by  his  duties  as  professor 
in  a  large  university.  Sister  Cecilia  saw  his 
letters  to  his  child,  and  liked  the  simple,  fa 
therly  spirit  they  breathed.  They  were  written 
in  English,  and  Ernestine  was  exhorted  to  per 
fect  herself  in  that  tongue,  during  the  oppor 
tunities  afforded  her  so  plentifully. 

The  two  strangers  whom  she  had  never  seen 
became  vividly  familiar  figures  in  the  nun's 
life.  She  saw  the  quiet  professor,  living 
among  his  books,  loving  his  wife  and  child 
in  his  matter-of-fact  fashion,  keeping  them  in 
mind  and  heart,  yet  bearing  with  much  phi 
losophy  their  absence  from  him.  And  far 
from  him,  in  the  scenes  she  called  up,  was  the 
radiant  figure  of  his  wife,  "the  greatest  con 
tralto  in  the  world/'  sweeping  on  in  her  brill 
iant  and  triumphant  career,  winning  fame 
and  wealth  and  countless  hearts  by  the  magic 
of  her  glorious  voice.  She  was  a  dignified 
and  noble  woman,  if  one  might  judge  by  the 
picture  in  Ernestine's  little  locket  and  those 
87 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

in  the  leather  case  that  was  her  greatest  treas 
ure.  Some  of  the  photographs,  taken  in  vari 
ous  operatic  roles,  made  the  nun  turn  away 
with  a  troubled  look  in  her  eyes.  These  cos 
tumes,  this  acting — surely,  they  could  not  be 
right.  Yet  that  voice — that  marvellous  voice 
which  God  had  given  the  woman — the  world 
must  be  the  better  for  that.  Oh,  if  she  herself 
could  hear  it!  If  once,  just  once  before  she 
died,  she  could  hear  a  great  voice  developed 
to  its  highest  possibilities.  For  years  the 
longing  had  been  with  her.  Now  it  grew  and 
strengthened  by  this  thought-association  with 
the  woman  who  had  become  the  personifica 
tion  of  the  ideal  in  her  life — still  as  remote, 
alas!  as  if  that  ideal  had  never  taken  form. 

Her  heart  felt  heavy  at  the  thought,  and 
her  smooth  brow  clouded.  Ernestine,  who 
was  chattering  at  her  side  on  the  subject  dear 
est  to  her,  laid  her  cheek  suddenly  against  the 
Sister's  hand. 

"  Ach,  but  I  wish  you  could  hear  my  mother 
sing,"  she  said.  "I  wish — I  wish  it  more  than 
anything." 

The  outspoken  expression  of  the  longing  in 
her  own  heart,  the  touch  of  the  little  cheek — 
perhaps,  too,  the  strain  of  many  rehearsals  of 
a  holiday  musical  programme — had  a  singu 
lar  effect  on  the  nun.  She  tried  to  speak  and 
88 


Her  Audience    of  Two 

failed.  Her  lips  trembled,  and  the  soft  eyes 
behind  her  glasses  filled.  The  child  looked  at 
her,  startled,  uncomprehending.  A  phenom 
enon  had  occurred.  It  could  not  be — and  yet 
it  was.  Sister  Cecilia  was  troubled — was  sad! 
Ernestine's  little  world  took  on  a  new  color 
ing,  strangely  sombre.  The  Sister,  the  beau 
tiful  and  kind  Sister  whom  she  so  dearly  loved, 
was  unhappy,  or  ill,  or  tired.  What  to  do  for 
her?  A  sudden  realization  of  the  futility  of 
the  sympathy  of  a  little  girl  settled  upon  Er 
nestine.  At  home,  when  she  was  tired,  her 
mother  sang  to  her.  Here  in  this  lonely  con 
vent,  when  her  dolls  were  ill,  she  sang  to  them. 
Assuredly,  singing  was  the  remedy  for  those 
who  were  sad.  Yet  who  should  sing  to  the 
Sister  Cecilia?  The  child  meditated  silently. 
Sister  Cecilia,  again  mistress  of  herself,  smil 
ingly  took  Ernestine's  hand  and  led  her  down 
the  hall. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  she  said,  brightly.  "It 
would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  hear  your  mother 
sing,  but  you  know  we  do  not  go  to  concerts 
or  operas." 

The  grasp  of  the  small  hand  in  her  own  sud 
denly  tightened.  Under  the  mass  of  yellow 
hair  much  thinking  had  been  going  on,  and 
at  the  Sister's  words  the  music-loving  atom 
trotting  at  her  side  was  conscious  of  an  inspi- 
89 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

ration.  A  smile  enlarged  Ernestine's  round 
face,  but  she  said  nothing.  She  was  a  child 
of  intelligence  and  sturdy  German  reserve. 

Two  months  later  "the  Sister  Cecilia"  sat 
in  her  private  music-room,  putting  on  paper 
the  notes  of  a  melody  that  had  rung  in  her 
ears  for  days.  It  was  Saturday  afternoon, 
and  that  wing  of  the  great  building  was  de 
serted.  A  February  storm  of  sleet  and  snow 
beat  upon  the  windows,  but  the  nun  heard  noth 
ing  of  it.  Beside  her  a  grand  piano  stood 
open,  and  she  vibrated  between  the  instru 
ment  and  her  writing-table,  playing  a  few 
bars  of  her  music,  then  writing  rapidly  with 
her  near-sighted  eyes  close  to  the  paper.  It 
was  not  singular  that  she  failed  to  hear  the 
soft  beat  of  a  little  hand  on  the  outside  of  the 
heavy  door — a  child's  tentative  rap.  It  was 
repeated,  and  followed  by  three  distinct  strokes 
from  knuckles  of  a  very  different  kind.  Then 
the  door  opened,  and  Ernestine  flew  into  the 
room,  impetuously  pulling  with  her  a  tall, 
blond  woman,  wrapped  in  heavy  furs.  The 
child  was  radiant.  Every  dimple  was  on  ex 
hibition,  and  her  eyes  danced  as  she  whirled 
her  companion  towards  the  table  from  which 
the  nun  had  hastily  risen.  It  did  not  need 
the  resemblance  between  the  two  to  tell  Sis 
ter  Cecilia  who  her  distinguished  visitor  was, 
90 


Her  Audience    of  Two 

The  first  words  she  spoke  did  that,  and  the 
rich  tones  made  the  nun's  heart  beat  faster. 
Madame  Holstein  spoke  English  correctly  and 
rapidly,  but  with  a  marked  foreign  accent. 

"The  Sister  Cecilia,  is  it  not?"  she  said. 
"It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  thank  you  for 
your  kindness  to  my  lonely  little  girl.  Er 
nestine  has  written  much  of  you.  I  think  we 
share  her  heart  among  us — you  and  I  and 
the  dear  father  in  Germany." 

"You  are  most  kind,"  said  the  nun,  gently, 
"  but  I  have  really  done  little  for  the  child  that 
calls  for  gratitude.  She  is  good  and  industri 
ous,  and  I  think  she  is  overcoming  her  loneli 
ness  as  she  knows  us  better." 

She  looked  up  at  the  other  woman  as  she 
spoke  with  a  sweet  shyness  in  her  glance.  It 
was  the  musician's  tribute  to  the  genius  of 
the  singer.  Something  in  it  touched  the  vis 
itor. 

"You  will  allow  me  to  remain,  will  you  not, 
a  little  while?"  she  asked  as  she  took  the  chair 
the  nun  indicated.  "I  have  had  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  the  Reverend  Mother,  as  my  little 
girl  calls  her.  She  was  good  enough  to  let 
me  come  to  you  in  this  informal  way." 

She  settled  herself  comfortably  as  she  spoke, 
and,  loosening  her  furs,  threw  them  over  the 
back  of  her  chair.  They  made  a  rich  setting 
91 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

for  her  superb  blond  coloring.  Her  child, 
standing  beside  her,  nestled  radiantly  in  the 
curve  of  the  maternal  arm.  Sister  Cecilia's 
breath  came  a  little  faster  as  she  studied  the 
picture,  her  hands  demurely  folded  in  her  lap. 

"You  must  know,  Sister,"  added  the  singer, 
"that  I  have  known  of  you  long  before  my 
little  Ernestine  wrote  of  you.  Your  name  I  did 
not  know,  or  where  you  were,  but  your  songs — 
yes,  I  knew  what  we  musicians  all  know — 
that  hidden  away  in  some  convent  a  Sister 
with  a  soul  for  music  was  giving  beautiful 
songs  to  the  world.  Many  of  them  I  have 
sung  at  my  concerts  and  recitals,  always  with 
applause  of  tears.  To-day  I  asked  your 
Mother  Superior  if  she  knew  the  musician, 
and  she  told  me  it  was  you — you  who  have 
been  so  kind  to  my  baby.  Thus,  you  see, 
for  two  things  I  must  thank  you — for  your 
songs  and  for  your  kindness  to  my  little  one." 

A  lump  came  into  Sister  Cecilia's  throat.  She 
could  not  speak.  The  singer  saw  and  understood. 
She  took  off  her  gloves  and  walked  to  the  piano. 

"Because  you  are  so  kind,"  she  added,  smil 
ing,  "I  ask  something  more  of  you.  I  wish 
to  sing  several  of  your  songs  to  you,  that  you 
may  tell  me  if  I  interpret  them  rightly.  Your 
'  Vesper  Song '  every  one  sings  differently.  Yet 
it  is  always  beautiful;  they  cannot  spoil  it." 
92 


Her  Audience   of  Two 

She  struck  the  opening  chords.  Ernestine 
sat  down  on  the  floor  beside  the  piano-stool, 
close  enough  to  lay  her  cheek  against  her 
mother's  skirt.  Sister  Cecilia  rose  as  if  hyp 
notized,  and  leaned  against  the  piano,  facing 
the  singer.  She  was  white.  Madame  Hoi- 
stein  smiled  back  at  her  with  perfect  compre 
hension  of  the  tumult  under  the  calm  exterior 
she  presented. 

"By  the  way,"  she  said,  "I  asked  the  Rev 
erend  Mother  if  I  may  sing  to  you,  and  she 
said  yes,  most  graciously.  My  little  girl  wish 
ed  it,  and  I  longed  to  do  it." 

She  began  the  "Vesper  Song,"  and  as  the 
first  wonderful  notes  filled  the  room,  Sister 
Cecilia  dropped  her  black-veiled  head  on  her 
folded  arms.  Here  was  the  supreme  moment 
for  which  she  longed — come  to  her  at  last  by 
the  grace  of  God.  How  good  He  was!  For  this 
— was  this  her  music?  This  great,  soft,  gold 
en  river  of  melody  that  flowed  around  her? 
Had  she  even  so  small  a  share  in  it  as  the  com 
poser's  part?  Had  she  actually  written  this 
exquisite  prayer  that  bore  one  upward  on  tri 
umphant  wings  of  faith  and  hope  to  Heaven 
itself?  She  trembled. 

On  the  floor  sat  little  Ernestine  in  sphinx- 
like  silence,  her  short  legs  straight  before 
her,  her  blond  head  shining  in  the  rich  dark 
93 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

folds  of  her  mother's  gown.  Outside,  the 
storm,  gaining  hourly  in  fury,  hurled  great 
masses  of  snow  against  the  window  -  panes. 
The  short  winter  afternoon  was  coming  to  an 
end,  and  heavy  shadows  were  already  form 
ing  in  the  corners  of  the  music-room.  The 
great  singer  sang  on,  adapting  her  selections 
to  the  silent  auditor  before  her;  and  the  nun 
listened  with  no  thought  of  time  or  place  or 
person,  with  consciousness  of  nothing  in  the 
world  except  the  marvellous  art,  the  glorious 
voice  of  the  woman,  this  idol  of  thousands, 
who  had  turned  from  them  all  for  a  little  time 
to  sing  to  her  alone. 

Madame  Holstein  whirled  about  on  the  pi 
ano-stool,  and  at  the  sound  the  nun  started 
and  looked  as  if  she  had  been  suddenly  re 
called  to  earth.  She  had  not  said  one  word, 
but  her  attitude  was  more  eloquent  than  thun 
ders  of  applause.  Madame  Holstein  smiled  as 
she  looked  in  her  startled  eyes. 

"Now,"  she  said,  with  a  fascinating  ab 
ruptness,  "I  shall  sing  to  you  some  operatic 
music — something  from  'Le  Prophete/  Fides 
— I  may  say  it  to  you  frankly — is  my  best  role. 
You  do  not  know  the  story — no?  Fides  is  the 
mother  of  the  prophet.  In  her  part  is  the  gamut 
of  a  mother's  love — the  tenderness,  the  tri 
umph,  the  sorrow,  the  suffering,  the  forgive- 
94 


Her   Audience   of   Two 

ness — a  mother's  heart  set  to  music,  one  might 
say,  dear  Sister.  See,  you  shall  take  this 
chair  a  little  out  of  the  way ;  and  you,  my  lamb 
kin,  shall  remove  yourself  on  your  fat  legs  to 
a  nice  corner.  Mother  is  going  to  do  an  opera 
for  Sister  Cecilia — acting,  recitative,  arias,  sit 
uations,  and  all  except  the  hot,  glaring  foot 
lights.  And  I  will  play  some  of  the  other  parts 
for  you,  Sister.  Thus  you  will  get  an  idea  of 
the  music  and  the  opera  as  a  whole." 

She  moved  about  the  room  energetically  as 
she  spoke,  pushing  the  chairs  out  of  the  way, 
arranging  a  mise-en-scene  to  please  her,  and 
hastily  outlining  the  story  of  the  opera  to  the 
nun  as  she  worked.  Her  eyes  were  as  bright 
and  her  cheeks  as  flushed  as  those  of  her  lit 
tle  girl.  It  was  a  new  experience  for  the  fa 
mous  prima  donna — this  impromptu  perform 
ance  in  the  music-room  of  the  great  cloister, 
and  she  enjoyed  it.  No  vast  audience  had 
ever  roused  in  her  the  sensation  that  filled 
her  now.  Holstein,  like  many  of  her  class, 
was  spoiled,  capricious,  and  unreasonable,  but 
the  best  that  was  in  her  came  to  the  surface 
as  she  faced  those  two — her  daughter  and  the 
nun.  She  knew  that  she  was  giving  to  the 
silent  singer  of  the  cloister  a  supreme  hour 
of  life. 

"First,"  she  said,  as  she  took  her  place  at 
95 


Tales   of  the  Cloister 

the  piano  again,  "we  will  have  the  great  aria 
in  the  second  act — Ah,  mon  fils.  I  will  play 
the  accompaniment  here,  for  there  is  little  ac 
tion.  We  have  only  the  proud  old  mother 
standing  behind  her  son's  chair  blessing  him 
for  saving  her  life,  though  to  do  it  he  gave  up 
the  woman  he  loved.  He  sits  at  a  little  table 
with  his  head  on  his  arms,  and  she  sings: 

"  Ah,  mon  fils,  ah,  mon  fils, 
Sois  beni. 
Ta  pauvre  mere 
Te  fus  plus  chere 
Que  ta  Bertha." 

Never  had  the  great  singer  sung  as  she  sang 
then.  The  nun  held  her  breath  as  the  glori 
ous  voice  sobbed  itself  into  silence.  And  by 
some  trick  of  imagination — or  who  shall  say 
how  or  why? — before  Sister  Cecilia's  eyes  rose 
a  vast,  bare  stage,  a  table  with  a  broken  man 
drooping  over  it,  an  old  mother  singing  her 
heart  out  at  his  side.  Tears  fell  from  the  nun's 
eyes  on  her  tightly  clasped  hands  that  lay  in 
her  lap,  but  she  was  unconscious  of  them. 

"Now  you  hear  the  '  Alms  Song/  "  said  the 
singer.     "Here  Fides  thinks  her  son  is  dead, 
and  begs  in  the  street  for  money  that  she  may 
buy  masses  for  the  repose  of  his  soul." 
96 


Her  Audience    of  Two 

The  agonizing  cry  poured  out : 

"  Donnez,  donnez,  pour  une  pauvre   ame,  ouvrez  lui 

le  paradis     .     .     . 
Donnez,  donnez  a  la  pauvre  femme, 
Qui  prie,  helas!  pour  son  fils." 

In  the  narrow  street  of  the  quaint  old  town  the 
white-haired,  broken-hearted  mother  begged  of 
the  passers-by.  The  nun  saw  it  all,  felt  it, 
with  the  double  intensity  of  religious  and  mu 
sical  ecstasy.  Almost  hidden  in  the  deep 
shadows  of  a  corner  of  the  room  she  leaned 
forward,  drinking  it  in,  and  lost  in  it.  To  the 
supremest  possible  extent  was  she  following 
every  shade  of  the  music,  every  element  in  the 
dramatic  situations,  every  beauty  of  that  voice. 
"Act  fourth,"  said  the  singer,  softly,  "the 
great  scene  in  the  temple  where  Jean  denies 
his  mother."  She  sang  : 

"  Qui  je  suis? 

Qui  je  suis?  moi? 

Je  suis,  helas!    Je  suis  la  pauvre  femme 

Qui  t'a  nourri,  t'apporte  dans  ses  bras." 

To  the  right  stood  the  stately  figure  of  the 
prophet  in  his  white  robes,  with  his  followers 
around  him.  The  music  of  the  wonderful 
march  that  preceded  the  scene  still  echoed 
faintly  in  the  ear.  But  wrho  could  hear  it, 
G  97 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

who  could  see  the  prophet  and  his  great  train 
when  this  music  flowed  from  the  lips  of  his 
old  mother  on  the  left?  Madame  Holstein 
looked  at  the  nun's  face  as  she  sang,  and  was 
satisfied  with  what  she  saw  there.  She  was 
responding  to  a  unique  inspiration,  and  in 
this  bare  convent  room,  with  a  black-veiled 
nun  held  in  absolute  possession  by  her  voice, 
she  gave  herself  to  her  singing  with  no  hus 
banding  of  force.  It  was  a  new  and  thrilling 
triumph.  Little  Ernestine  was  placidly  sleep 
ing  in  her  corner,  but  her  one  listener  was  af 
fording  the  famous  singer  such  appreciation 
as  she  never  had  from  audience  before.  She 
could  feel  the  soul  of  the  woman  set  apart 
from  the  world  quiver  under  the  tones  with 
which  she  charged  it. 

"There  are  but  two  more,"  she  said,  "and 
the  best  is  the  last,  I  think.  For  here  is  Fides, 
singing  alone  as  she  awaits  her  fate  in  the 
gloomy  crypt  where  they  have  cast  her  under 
the  cathedral  of  Miinster." 

"  O    toi    qui    m'abandonnes,    mon    coeur    est    des- 

arme    .     .     . 
Ta  mkre  te  pardonne.     Adieu." 

"When  she  sees  him,  she  forgives  him,  of 
course,"  murmured  the  singer,  playing  softly 
Jean's  part  in   the  duet   that  followed.     "She 
98 


Her  Audience    of  Two 

forgives  him,  and  she  comes  back  to  die  with 
him  at  the  end,  with  the  final,  maternal  cry 
of  her  big,  loving  heart. 

"  Moi,  qui  viens  te  pardonner  et  mourir  avec  toi  .  .  . 
Ah,  viens,  divine  flamme,  vers  Dieu  qui  nous  re 
clame, 
Porter  notre  &me,  libre  de  ses  erreurs." 

The  last  strain  shuddered  into  silence.  The 
storm,  which  had  seemed  tamed  to  a  listening 
silence,  awoke  and  howled  with  greater  fury. 
It  was  almost  night.  Across  the  darkening 
waste  of  snow  that  lay  in  the  garden  beneath 
lights  appeared,  twinkling  in  the  windows  of 
distant  wings  of  the  old  convent.  Madame 
Holstein  walked  to  the  corner  where  the  nun 
sat,  and  stood  smilingly  looking  down  upon 
her.  Instinctive  courtesy  roused  the  Sister 
from  her  trance,  and  she,  too,  rose,  looking 
at  the  other  woman  with  eyes  that  said  what 
her  tongue  could  not  speak.  Ernestine  still 
slumbered  in  shameless  peacefulness  in  her  cor 
ner,  her  rosy  cheek  resting  against  the  unsym 
pathetic  polished  floor.  Her  mother  went  to 
her,  bent  down  and  lifted  her  in  her  arms.  The 
child  was  a  perceptible  burden,  but  she  bore 
it  as  lightly  and  as  firmly  as  a  sheet  of  mu 
sic  when  she  sang. 

"I  am  afraid  my  fat  baby  has  lost  a  little 
99 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

of  mother's  singing — the  singing  for  which 
she  has  been  so  very  hungry  for  two  months/' 
she  said,  mischievously.  "And  now  she  must 
be  roused  to  take  her  bread  and  milk  and  drive 
to  the  hotel.  I  must  have  her  there  with  me 
while  I  am  in  the  city/'  she  added,  a  little 
shamefacedly.  "Perhaps  it  is  wrong,  but  I 
have  a  companion  who  will  take  good  care  of 
her  when  I  am  not  home.  And  you  know, 
Sister,  when  I  come  in  at  night,  I  wish  her  in 
my  bed,  waiting  for  me.  Oh,  the  longing  for 
her  sometimes,  the  hunger  to  feel  her  dear  lit 
tle  body  in  my  arms — "  She  stopped  sud 
denly,  and  looked  down  at  her  sleeping  child 
with  an  expression  on  her  face  that  all  the  ma 
ternal  music  of  Fides  had  not  brought  there. 

They  left  the  room  and  went  down  the  cor 
ridor  together,  Madame  Holstein  still  carrying 
her  little  girl.  The  nun  walked  beside  them, 
answering  the  singer's  light  remarks,  and 
thanking  her  in  her  sweet,  shy  way  for  the 
music  of  the  afternoon.  She  was  still  in  a 
daze,  and  said  little.  But  the  other  woman 
understood. 

Hours  after  the  nun  had  gone  to  her  cell 
that  night,  she  lay,  her  eyes  open  on  the  dark 
ness,  listening  to  the  music  that  swelled  within 
the  four  bare  walls.  Somewrhere  in  the  great 
city  outside  the  silent  convent  Madame  Holstein 
100 


Her  Audience    of  Two 

was  singing — singing  to  thousands  of  music 
lovers.  She  would  have  a  great  triumph,  no 
doubt;  the  brilliant  audience  would  call  her 
out  again  and  again,  as  those  in  the  East  had 
done.  The  wonder  of  it,  the  glory  of  it,  that 
one  human  voice  could  sway  so  many! 

Yet,  somehow,  the  picture  the  nun  took 
with  her  when  she  at  last  fell  asleep  was  not 
the  radiant  figure  of  the  great  artist  smiling 
her  thanks  before  the  curtain,  nor  the  grandly 
maternal  figure  of  Fides.  It  was  the  mother 
look  that  had  lit  Frau  Holstein's  eyes  as  she 
bent  over  the  small,  plump,  German  maid  whom 
she  had  gathered  up  in  her  strong  arms — her 
child,  sung  to  sleep  by  its  mother's  voice. 


The  Girl  Who  Was 


The  Girl  Who  Was 


HEN  Katherine  Randolph  was 
graduated  at  the  early  age  of  sev 
enteen,  she  bore  away  from  St. 
Mary's  the  "Cross  of  Honor/'  the 
"Crown,"  and  the  worshipful  regard  of  her 
twenty  girl  classmates. 

The  "Cross  of  Honor"  was  awarded  for  her 
general  record  as  a  student  and  an  honor  to 
the  institution.  The  "Crown"  fell  on  her 
brow  to  attest  her  mastery  of  the  field  of  knowl 
edge  known  as  Christian  doctrine. 

Miss  Randolph  wore  both  the  cross  and  the 
crown  on  Graduation  day,  but  in  the  evening 
laid  the  latter  and  her  ribbon-tied  valedictory 
away  with  a  few  fitting  tears.  The  cross  she 
continued  to  wear,  at  first  on  the  gold  neck- 
chain  then  in  fashion,  and  later  as  a  pin.  She 
was  careful  not  to  lose  it,  for  in  addition  to 
its  associations  and  sentimental  value,  it  had 
practical  uses  not  to  be  disdained.  She  once 
mentioned  these  to  friends. 
105 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

"You  see,"  she  said,  with  grateful  exulta 
tion,  "  this  cross  gives  me  admission  as  a  guest 
at  any  convent  in  the  world.  If  I  am  travel 
ling  alone  and  do  not  wish  to  go  to  a  hotel,  I 
need  only  present  myself  at  a  cloister  and  the 
portress  will  give  my  cross  one  look  and  throw 
wide  the  doors  to  it — and  myself.  Then,  some 
time,  when  I  am  ninety  or  a  hundred  years 
old,  I  may  come  back  to  my  Alma  Mater  a 
battered  veteran  of  the  battle  of  life,  with  a 
smooth  cross  on  my  weary  breast.  By  that 
sign  they  will  know  me,  and  gather  me  in." 

Her  friends  laughed  at  the  light  words,  but 
no  one  could  deny  that  Miss  Randolph  wore 
the  cross  faithfully  during  the  summer  fol 
lowing  her  graduation.  Like  many  convent 
girls,  she  found  it  very  hard  to  keep  away 
from  the  institution  which  had  sheltered  her 
for  years.  She  felt  homesick  for  it,  and  the 
intervals  between  her  frequent  visits  were 
weeks  to  be  lived  through  in  the  thought  of 
the  open  cloister  doors  that  lay  at  the  end  of 
them.  After  this  restful,  lazy  summer  she 
meant  to  work  and  win  her  place  in  the  world. 
In  the  mean  time  it  was  pleasant  to  wander 
through  the  old  garden  and  discuss  her  plans 
with  the  Sisters. 

She  had  many  plans,  and  was  singularly 
free  to  carry  them  out.  Her  father  had  per- 
106 


The  Girl   Who   Was 

mitted  her  to  spend  her  childhood  and  girl 
hood  in  the  convent.  At  first  this  had  been 
done  in  deference  to  the  earnestly  expressed 
wishes  of  a  strong-willed  second  wife,  but  as 
the  years  went  by  he  became  so  reconciled  to 
the  situation  that  even  the  girl's  holidays 
were  passed  at  the  homes  of  classmates.  Her 
father  made  her  a  liberal  allowance  for  her 
expenses  and  felt  that  his  duty  was  done.  Her 
proposition  to  go  out  into  the  world  and  make 
a  career  for  herself  met  with  his  lively  approval. 

She  put  the  situation  frankly  before  her 
friends  the  nuns. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  with  much  cheerful 
ness,  one  warm  August  day,  "I  shall  be  eigh 
teen  the  last  of  this  month,  and  then  I  shall 
come  into  the  money  my  mother  left  me.  It 
is  not  much,  but  it  is  well  invested,  and  will 
yield  an  income  of  eleven  or  twelve  hundred 
dollars  a  year.  That  is  almost  a  hundred  a 
month,  and  I  can  go  to  New  York  and  take 
singing  lessons  and  live  very  comfortably  on 
such  an  income.  I  must  make  a  home  and 
friends  for  myself  somewhere,  and  I  might  as 
well  begin  there  as  anywhere.  Later,  per 
haps,  I  may  go  to  Europe,  if  my  voice  devel 
ops  well.  Sister  Cecilia  says  it  is  full  of  prom 
ise,  and  that  if  I  work  hard  I  am  sure  to 
succeed." 

107 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

The  plan  did  not  especially  appeal  to  the 
quiet  inmates  of  the  cloister,  but  they  had 
nothing  better  to  suggest,  except  that  she 
remain  in  its  safe  shelter  with  them.  They 
did  this  only  tentatively,  for  nuns  are  not 
prone  to  give  such  advice  to  their  pupils.  The 
gentle  proposal  did  not  appeal  to  Miss  Ran 
dolph.  She  shook  her  auburn  head,  and  her 
red-brown  eyes  twinkled  mischievously. 

"I  must  see  life  first,"  she  laughed.  "There 
is  a  big,  beautiful  world  beyond  these  walls, 
and  I  want  to  know  what  it's  like.  I  must 
know.  For  years  the  longing  for  it  has  been 
in  me.  If  it  treats  me  badly,  I'll  come 
home." 

So  they  let  her  go  because  they  could  do 
nothing  else,  and  the  world  swallowed  her  as 
if  she  had  been  a  small  and  succulent  oyster. 
At  first,  letters  from  her  drifted  back  into  the 
cloister  at  .close  intervals,  strange  letters,  show 
ing  how  rapidly  the  girl  was  turning  the  pages 
of  life's  great  ledger.  And  at  longer  inter 
vals  a  letter  from  the  cloister  went  to  her,  sweet 
with  the  love  and  prayers  of  the  gentle  friends 
behind  the  convent  walls. 

Katherine  Randolph  used  to  re-read  these 
letters  sometimes,  and  even  think  them  over 
a  little.  But  she  was  very  busy,  for  she  wish 
ed  to  see  life  and  the  world,  and  many  men 
108 


The  Girl   Who  Was 

and  women  showed  a  sociable  willingness  to 
set  them  before  her. 

It  was  a  simple  matter  for  the  girl  with  no 
home  influences  or  close  ties  to  drift  into  the 
"bohemian"  set — so  unique  and  interesting  to 
her  convent  eyes.  She  went  with  these  new 
friends  to  New  York's  music  -  halls,  to  its  cheap 
table-d'hdte  restaurants,  even  to  French  balls 
and  the  slums,  and  felt  that  she  was  seeing  life. 
Men  and  women  sometimes  looked  at  her  pure 
face  and  wondered  over  its  contrast  with  the 
rather  sophisticated  ones  around  her.  Once 
an  elderly  woman  with  white  hair  and  "moth 
er  eyes"  took  it  upon  herself  to  give  a  little 
advice  to  the  girl  with  the  gold  cross  at  her 
neck. 

"Do  you  think,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "that 
these  are  the  best  friends  for  you?  There  is 
no  special  harm  in  them,  perhaps,  but  they 
are  not  in  your  class  and  may  bring  you  into 
theirs.  I  don't  think  you  would  like  that, 
would  you?  Forgive  me  for  speaking  in  this 
way,  but  if  you  were  my  daughter  it  would 
break  my  heart  to  see  you  with  them." 

Katherine  listened  courteously  and  even 
with  a  little  awe.  She  realized  the  kindliness 
of  the  woman's  purpose.  It  came  to  her  dim 
ly  that  her  mother,  had  she  been  alive,  might 
have  said  the  same  thing.  But  she  was  young, 
109 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

this  life  gay,  and  she  was  fond  of  her  new 
friends.  She  was  still  sufficiently  naive  to  re 
peat  the  incident  to  them,  and  they  treated  it 
with  off-hand  good  humor. 

"The  dear  old  thing  means  well,"  said  one 
of  them,  "  but  she  looks  at  the  world  with  nar 
row,  old-fashioned  eyes.  She  can't  realize 
that  we  have  such  a  good  time  and  yet  are  the 
'  square '  crowd  we  are.  Don't  worry  about 
her,  Kate;  we'll  take  care  of  you." 

They  did  for  a  time,  in  their  characteristic, 
easy-going  way.  But  old  friends  fell  out  of 
the  circle  and  new  ones  came,  and  it  grew 
wider  and  also  deeper.  After  a  year  or  two 
"little  Randolph"  was  no  longer  a  novice  to 
be  counselled  and  advised.  The  "  have  beens  " 
and  the  "might  have  beens"  of  the  press  and 
the  stage  caught  her  in  their  human  eddies, 
and  the  undertow  drew  her  down.  She  be 
came  a  sophisticated  young  woman,  learned 
New  York  pretty  well  on  its  gay  side,  talked 
about  human  nature,  and  thought  she  under 
stood  men  and  women.  Her  voice  developed 
to  the  satisfaction  of  her  teacher,  who  unself 
ishly  suggested  that  she  give  it  a  final  polish 
abroad.  She  was  rather  tired  of  New  York 
by  this  time;  she  had  lived  there  four  years, 
and  felt  that  it  had  few  secrets  and  fewer  nov 
elties  for  her.  She  sailed  for  Paris, 
no 


The  Girl  Who  Was 

There  is  kinship  in  the  arts,  and  she  drifted 
into  the  Latin  Quarter  life.  The  rollicking 
students  liked  her;  so  did  the  painters  who 
taught  them.  They  enjoyed  the  wit  and  au 
dacity  of  the  little  American.  A  great  artist 
persuaded  her  to  pose  for  him,  and  the  pict 
ure,  on  the  line  at  the  Spring  Salon,  was  the 
sensation  of  the  year.  It  was  only  a  face,  a 
young  and  brilliant  face,  framed  in  a  halo  of 
red-gold  hair,  with  brown  eyes  looking  straight 
at  the  observer.  There  was  a  suggestion  of 
white  about  the  throat,  and  against  this  a 
gold  cross.  But  the  genius  of  the  picture  lay 
in  the  eyes.  All  of  earth  that  French  art  and 
French  imagination  could  put  into  them  was 
there.  Above  the  gold  cross  and  the  soft  dim 
ples  in  cheek  and  chin,  the  devil  himself  look 
ed  out  of  their  brown  depths.  The  artist  called 
his  picture,  with  grim  humor,  "The  Convent 
Girl." 

Half-tone  reproductions  of  it  filled  the  art 
journals  of  Europe,  and  were  copied  in  the 
newspapers  and  magazines  of  America.  The 
original  of  "  The  Convent  Girl "  became  a  sub 
ject  for  newspaper  correspondence,  stories,  and 
other  pictures.  Famous  artists  sought  her  as 
a  model.  One  of  Paris's  enterprising  man 
agers  engaged  her  to  sing  a  little  song  be 
tween  the  acts  of  a  new  comedy,  and  on  her 
ill 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

first  appearance  she  became  the  talk  of  the 
clubs  and  salons. 

Her  descent  was  swift,  starting,  as  she  did, 
half-way  down  the  long  hill  at  whose  foot  lives 
the  demi-mondaine  of  Paris.  A  princeling 
from  some  petty  German  state  smiled  upon 
her;  an  Indian  rajah  succumbed  stolidly  to 
her  charm;  the  gayest  set  of  the  gayest  city 
in  the  world  was  at  her  feet. 

In  the  course  of  time  one  of  the  magazine 
reproductions  of  "  The  Convent  Girl "  found  its 
way  into  the  American  convent  from  which 
Miss  Randolph  had  been  graduated.  Under  it 
were  a  few  words  about  the  original — now 
known  all  over  Europe  under  the  sobriquet 
she  had  gained  from  the  title  of  the  picture. 

The  Mother  Superior  and  the  girl's  former 
teacher  looked  at  it  together  for  a  moment. 
The  face  was  the  face  of  the  pupil  they  had 
loved;  the  eyes  were  those  of  the  woman  who 
unflinchingly  faced  the  world  that  had  made 
her  what  she  was.  Even  the  guileless  glance 
of  the  nuns  read  what  was  there,  and  did  not 
need  the  illumination  afforded  by  the  text. 
The  Superior  solemnly  tore  the  scrap  of  paper 
into  little  bits. 

"We  can  still  pray  for  her,"  she  said,  slowly. 

In  Paris,  the  gay  life  of  the  Convent  Girl 
went  on  with  increasing  swiftness.  Given  the 
112 


The   Girl  Who  Was 

opportunity  to  achieve  the  kind  of  fame  she 
had  learned  to  crave,  she  grasped  it.  She 
began  to  work  and  study,  taking  as  her  model 
a  notorious  French  singer  whose  exquisite  art 
in  the  singing  of  unspeakable  songs  had  won 
unwilling  recognition  from  the  people  of  two 
continents.  The  Convent  Girl  vanquished  this 
singer  on  her  own  ground,  for  the  latter  had 
become  an  old  story  and  the  new-comer  was 
young  and  beautiful.  To  the  blase  French 
there  was  a  fascination  in  the  contrast  between 
the  pure  lips  and  the  words  that  came  from 
them,  the  gold  cross  always  worn  by  her,  and 
the  eyes  above  it. 

"  Who  is  this  '  Convent  Girl '  they're  talking 
about?"  an  English  woman  of  rank  asked  her 
husband.  She  did  not  visit  the  cafes  chantants 
of  Paris,  nor  did  she  read  publications  which 
would  have  told  her  what  she  asked.  Her  hus 
band  was  very  well  informed  on  the  subject. 

"She  is  a  woman  who  has  the  wickedest 
eyes  in  all  Europe,"  he  said,  curtly. 

The  Convent  Girl  continued  her  swift  swirl 
ing  in  the  Paris  whirlpool.  Men  ruined  them 
selves  for  her,  and  women  studied  the  fash 
ions  of  her  gowns.  Among  her  kind  she  was 
regarded  as  a  good  sort.  She  gave  freely,  with 
the  off-hand  generosity  that  involves  no  self- 
sacrifice.  She  posed  for  one  or  two  promising 
H  113 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

young  painters  and  made  them  the  fashion. 
Occasionally  it  pleased  her  to  put  on  a  simple 
frock  and  go  among  the  poor,  giving  right 
and  left.  This  amused  her,  and  she  said  it 
was  better  than  chloral.  "  For  I'm  sometimes 
afraid/'  she  added,  lightly,  "that  my  record 
ing  angel  is  over-worked." 

The  stories  of  her  transatlantic  success  in 
terested  New  York  managers,  and  flattering 
offers  came  to  her  from  them  each  season.  For 
eight  years  she  declined  these;  she  had  "  broken 
with  America/'  she  said.  She  had  no  Ameri 
can  correspondents;  she  did  not  even  read  the 
American  newspapers.  Why  should  she  re 
turn  to  her  native  land  when  in  all  its  length 
and  breadth  it  held  no  friends  of  hers?  Even 
her  old  bohemian  associates  had  a  meagre  sense 
of  propriety.  She,  the  defier  of  all  fit  human 
standards,  could  have  nothing  in  common 
even  with  them.  But  one  day  a  sudden,  un 
accountable  wave  of  homesickness  rolled  over 
her.  She  felt  a  strange  longing  for  the  sights 
and  sounds  of  Broadway ;  for  her  Western  home 
— strangest  of  all,  an  aspiration  towards  her 
old  convent  itself.  Her  lips  curled  in  self- 
scorn.  She — a  visitor  at  the  convent!  That 
the  idea  should  have  found  a  place  in  her  con 
sciousness  showed  that  something  was  wrong 
with  her.  She  wondered  what  it  was.  She 
114 


The  Girl  Who  Was 

had  not  been  well  for  months — perhaps  that 
was  it. 

Yet  the  longing  for  America  remained.  It 
was  only  a  whim,  of  course,  but  her  life  was 
given  up  to  the  gratification  of  whims.  Why 
not  gratify  this  one?  She  decided  that  she 
would,  and  perhaps  she  might  know  again  the 
gay  indifference  that  alone  made  her  life  en 
durable. 

The  next  day  a  delighted  New  York  man 
ager  received  a  cable,  and  within  a  week  the 
great  dailies  teemed  with  the  news  of  "The 
Convent  Girl's "  approaching  visit.  It  was  a 
dull  season,  and  the  editors  were  glad  to  give 
much  space  to  this  subject.  The  Sunday  edi 
tions  devoted  pages  to  the  story  of  her  career, 
illustrated  with  the  photographs  which  were 
already  on  exhibition  everywhere.  Flaming 
posters  placarded  the  city.  The  woman  with 
"  the  wickedest  eyes  in  Europe  "  had  at  last 
mercifully  consented  to  turn  them  again 
upon  her  native  land. 

She  had  little  time  for  reflection  after  her 
arrival.  The  reporters  were  on  tiptoe  for  her, 
and  her  press  agent  was  feverishly  active. 
She  granted  interviews  right  and  left,  and  sat 
for  photographs,  and  wrote  autographs,  and 
attended  a  few  rehearsals,  and  smiled  disdain 
fully  over  the  hundreds  of  letters  that  poured 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

in  upon  her.  Friendship  and  respect  were  not 
lavished  upon  her,  but  there  was  no  dearth  of 
attention  and  flattery. 

Her  first  night  was  one  of  professional  tri 
umph  for  "The  Convent  Girl."  The  vast 
house  rose  to  her,  flowers  were  showered  upon 
her,  boisterous  applause  greeted  her  repeated 
appearances  before  the  curtain.  She  sang  in 
French,  and  although  few  understood  the  cur 
rent  slang  of  the  Paris  streets,  all  felt  her 
strange  magnetism  and  admitted  her  devilish 
art.  The  newspapers  which  chronicled  her 
success  the  next  morning  did  not  mention 
the  fact  that  after  the  performance  was  over 
the  woman  had  quietly  fainted  in  her  dress 
ing-room,  where  doctors  had  worked  for  hours 
to  bring  her  back  to  consciousness.  This  pub 
lication  would  have  hurt  "business,"  her  man 
ager,  and  herself;  the  reporters  were  con 
siderate. 

The  best-known  of  the  doctors  who  attend 
ed  her  was  an  acquaintance  of  her  bohemian 
career  in  New  York.  Once  or  twice  in  those 
days  she  had  gone  to  him  with  simple  ail 
ments.  He  had  come  to  see  the  "little  Ran 
dolph"  of  years  ago,  and  had  tried  to  find  in 
the  brilliant  figure  on  the  stage  some  trace  of 
the  girl  he  had  known.  In  the  midst  of  his 
reverie  he  had  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder, 
116 


The  Girl   Who   Was 

and   quietly   followed   behind    the   scenes   the 
usher  who  gave  it. 

She  was  there,  and  there,  too,  was  the  shad 
ow,  at  least,  of  "little  Randolph."  The  paint 
had  been  washed  off  her  face,  and  the  gor 
geous  costume  of  the  evening  was  replaced  by 
a  simple  dressing-gown.  She  lay  on  a  sofa, 
breathing  heavily,  her  brown  lashes  resting  on 
cheeks  whose  pallor  was  startling.  An  agi 
tated  maid  and  several  superfluous  attendants 
bustled  around  her. 

Dr.  Raymond  went  to  work  with  profes 
sional  coolness;  other  doctors  came,  and  they 
applied  remedies  until  her  eyes  once  more 
opened  on  life.  The  faces  of  the  physicians 
had  been  very  grave,  but  they  at  once  took 
on  a  smile  of  professional  cheerfulness  as  the 
great  brown  eyes  roved  in  turn  to  each  of  them. 

"I've  been  ill,"  said  the  Convent  Girl,  "very 
ill,  I  think."  She  recognized  Dr.  Raymond, 
and  smiled  faintly.  "I  saw  you  in  the  audi 
ence.  You  must  make  me  well.  Please  come 
to  see  me  in  the  morning,"  and  having  thus 
indicated  her  choice  of  a  physician,  she  sign 
ed  to  her  maid  to  take  her  home. 

In    the   morning    Dr.    Raymond    found   her 
dressed,    but   very   pale   and   with    exhausted 
vitality.     She  met  him  with  an  affectation  of 
confidence  that  moved  him  strangely. 
117 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

"It  is  only  a  little  thing,  of  course,"  she 
said,  with  something  of  her  old-time  vivacity, 
"  but  I  can't  afford  to  be  ill  at  all.  This  has 
been  coming  on  for  a  year,  I  think.  I  have 
had  queer  attacks.  Do  you  suppose  it  is  my 
heart?  You  must  make  a  careful  examina 
tion,  doctor,  and  give  me  something  to  build 
me  up  thoroughly.  Then  after  a  while  I  will 
take  a  rest." 

The  doctor  made  the  examination  skilfully. 
After  it  was  over  he  slowly  replaced  his  in 
struments  in  their  case.  He  would  have  given 
much  to  avoid  the  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  that 
lay  before  him. 

"Miss  Randolph,  you  must  take  a  rest 
now,"  he  said,  at  last. 

The  woman  opened  her  eyes  at  the  tone  and 
the  rarely  used  name.  A  singular,  rebellious 
light  flashed  in  them. 

"Why?"  she  asked,  tersely.  The  doctor 
parried  the  question. 

"  You  are  run  down,"  he  said.  "  Very  much 
run  down."  She  had  to  be  told;  half  meas 
ures  would  effect  little. 

"That  is  why  I  have  called  you  in,"  she  re 
torted. 

"Miss  Randolph,"  he  said,  deliberately, 
"  you  are  in  a  grave  condition.  You  have  a 
surprisingly  small  amount  of  vitality,  your 
118 


The  Girl   Who  Was 

nerves  are  exhausted,  and — your  heart  is  seri 
ously  affected.  You  must  give  up  all  work  at 
once,  cancel  all  engagements,  go  to  bed,  and 
let  yourself  be  taken  care  of." 

"And  if  I  refuse?"  remarked  the  woman. 

The  doctor  looked  at  her.  There  was  a 
mocking  light  in  her  eyes  that  irritated  him. 
He  had  tried  to  be  considerate  but  convincing, 
and  it  had  not  worked.  He  turned  a  little 
brutal. 

"  Then  you  will  play  fast  and  loose  with  your 
life,"  he  said,  dryly.  "I  have  warned  you;  if 
you  choose  to  ignore  the  warning,  you  must 
bear  the  consequences." 

"  You  mean  that  I  would  probably  die?"  she 
demanded,  the  reckless  light  still  dancing  in 
her  eyes.  He  met  them  squarely. 

"Beyond  one  doubt,"  he  replied,  brusquely, 
and  went  away. 

She  disregarded  his  warning,  as  he  had 
known  she  would  do.  It  did  not  surprise  him 
to  see  that  she  continued  singing,  and  filling 
not  only  night  but  day  with  feverish  excite 
ment.  Once  she  fainted  on  the  stage,  and 
twice  her  manager  had  to  announce  that  she 
could  not  appear.  But  she  sang,  when  she 
did  appear,  with  as  much  magnetic  vivacity 
and  art  as  ever,  and  she  was  always  seen  af 
ter  the  performance  at  some  restaurant  with 
119 


Tales  of   the  Cloister 

half  a  dozen  men  around  her.  Rumors  of  the 
frequent  collapses  circulated,  but  Dr.  Raymond 
made  no  effort  to  see  her.  During  the  last  week 
of  her  New  York  engagement  she  sent  for  him, 
and  the  phlegmatic  physician  was  horrified  at 
the  change  two  short  months  had  made  in  her. 

She  gave  him  her  hand  and  motioned  him 
wearily  to  a  chair. 

"I  did  not  believe  you,"  she  said,  "and  I 
did  not  take  your  advice.  I  have  seen  other 
doctors  since,  and  they  tell  me  that  there  is 
no  hope,  so  I  have  sent  for  you  that  you  may 
gloat  over  me." 

"God  forbid!"  said  Dr.  Raymond,  shocked 
at  her  levity.  "I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that 
I  had  been,  as  you  thought,  mistaken.  What 
are  you  going  to  do?"  he  added. 

The  woman  laughed  bitterly. 

"Die,"  she  said,  with  savage  directness. 
"All  you  doctors  say  I  must.  And  soon,  too. 
But  I  am  going  to  do  something  first,  and  I 
have  sent  for  you  to  help  me.  If  I  must  die, 
I  will  not  die  here  with  these — people — around 
me.  I  am  going  home,  to  my  old  convent, 
out  West." 

"You  cannot  bear  the  journey,"  objected  the 
doctor. 

"That  is  why  I  have  sent  for  you,"  retort 
ed  the  Convent  Girl,  feverishly.  "You  must 
120 


The  Girl   Who   Was 

go  with  me,  and  keep  me  alive  until  we  get  there. 
It  is  a  long  journey  and  a  wearisome  one,  I 
know.  But  we  can  leave  here  on  the  '  limited ' 
to-day  and  get  there  Friday  morning.  You 
must  leave  your  patients  in  other  hands.  I 
will  pay  you  well.  I  have  plenty  of  money. 
It  is  all  I  have  got  now,"  she  added,  recklessly. 

The  doctor  hesitated,  then  put  a  question. 

"Will  they  take  you  after  you  get  there?" 

She  touched  the  gold  cross  which  had  never 
left  her  neck. 

"This  will  make  them,"  she  said.  "Do  you 
know,  I've  had  a  sense  from  the  first  that  I 
should  need  it — a  strange  foreboding.  Fate 
took  me  in  hand,  God  knows  why,  and  made 
me  what  I  am.  I  could  not  help  it.  You  will 
not  believe  it,  but  I  tried — at  first — and 
through  it  all  I  held  fast  to  this  one  thing. 
If  they  hesitate,  you  must  talk  to  the  Supe 
rior.  Tell  her  that  since  this  weakness  has 
come  upon  me,  I  have  had  but  one  thought, 
one  wish,  day  and  night — to  get  home — to  get 
home !  Tell  her  I  long  for  the  peace  and  rest 
of  the  convent  and — for  the  goodness  of  the 
Sisters.  Tell  her  I  want  to  repent,  I  want  to 
confess,  I  want" — she  burst  suddenly  into  a 
paroxysm  of  hysterical  weeping — "I  want  to 
wipe  out  these  horrible  years  before  I  go." 

"I  will  tell  her,"  said  the  doctor,  quietly. 
121 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

He  never  told  what  passed  between  him  and 
the  Mother  Superior  at  their  meeting  the  fol 
lowing  Friday,  but  he  came  away  with  some 
thing  more  than  respect  in  his  heart  for  that 
woman  with  a  cloister's  purity.  He  returned 
to  the  convent  an  hour  later,  his  patient  with 
him. 

"She  is  very  low/'  he  said,  "and  only  semi 
conscious.  But  she  knows  you  are  taking  her 
in.  She  has  kept  herself  alive  through  the 
journey,  by  sheer,  indomitable  will,  for  this 
alone.  You  spoke  of  her  receiving  the  last 
sacraments.  I  think  you  should  send  for  a 
priest  at  once." 

The  Convent  Girl  heard  him,  and  opened  the 
brown  eyes  on  which  already  a  dull  film  had 
gathered. 

"I  have  come  back  to  you,  Reverend 
Mother,"  she  said,  gaspingly.  "I  have  come 
home  to — to  begin  again.  Perhaps  I  can  get 
well  here.  It  is  so  quiet,  so  peaceful — so 
peaceful — "  Her  voice  died  away  and  she  lay 
staring  at  the  bare  white  ceiling  of  the  room 
to  which  she  had  been  carried.  The  little 
gleam  of  consciousness  went  out.  From  the 
distant  chapel  came  the  voices  of  Sister  Ce 
cilia's  choir,  rehearsing  the  music  of  the  next 
day.  The  sick  woman  heard  it  and  started  up, 
pushing  back  the  hands  that  tried  to  hold  her. 
122 


The  Girl    Who  Was 

"Singing!"  she  cried,  excitedly.  "Singing! 
I  can  sing,  too!  See,  it  is  time  for  my  turn. 
And  the  house  is  packed.  All  these  rows, 
black  with  people — and  not  one  real  friend! 
Oh,  I'll  sing — Oui,  messieurs  et  dames.  Je 
veux  chanter.  Que  voulez  vous?  '  Les  Vieux 
Messieurs  '?  '  A  la  Villette '?" 

Dr.  Raymond  pushed  her  back  on  the  bed. 
There  was  an  almost  comical  look  of  anxiety 
on  his  face. 

"To  sing  those  here!"  he  thought.  "They 
might  not  understand — but  the  horror  of  it!" 
He  glanced  at  the  ascetically  bare  walls  and 
the  crucifix  above  the  bed. 

She  lay  silent  for  a  moment,  picking  at  the 
white  spread  that  covered  her.  Her  eyes 
opened  and  met  those  of  the  Superior,  fixed 
on  her  with  tenderest  pity.  A  look  of  com 
prehension  crept  into  her  eyes. 

"No,"  she  said,  hoarsely,  "no,  I  won't  sing. 
I  am  home.  Nobody  sings  at  home  where  things 
are  quiet  and  restful — restful — and  dark.  It  is 
only  when  the  crowds  are  there,  and  the  lights 
are  burning — that  one  sings." 

Dr.  Raymond  drew  the  Superior  aside. 

"There  is  one  point,  Reverend  Mother,  that 

I  unfortunately  overlooked  when  I  asked  you  to 

take  this  poor  woman  into  your  kind  hands," 

he  said.     "I  forgot  that  she  is  not  herself,  and 

123 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

may  not  be  until  the  end.  In  her  delirium  she 
may  sing  or  say  things  that  will  be  painful  to 
you.  Most  of  it  will  probably  be  in  French. 
So  I  would  suggest  that  you  select  for  her  at 
tendants  in  the  sick-room  Sisters  who  do  not 
understand  that  language." 

The  Superior  inclined  her  head  without 
speaking.  The  woman  in  the  bed  turned 
her  eyes  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Where  is  my  cross?"  she  cried,  suddenly. 

They  had  removed  it  when  they  undressed 
her,  but  one  of  the  Sisters  got  it  and  placed  it 
in  her  hand  to  quiet  her. 

"Fasten  it,"  she  said,  "fasten  it  here,  on  my 
breast.  Do  you  know  what  that  cross  means? 
It  means  home!  Some  day  I  shall  go  home, 
you  know.  I've  never  had  a  home  here.  And 
I  shall  show  them  the  cross  and  they  will  let 
me  in — they  will  let  me  in — " 

The  doctor  felt  her  pulse. 

"She  is  weaker  than  I  thought,"  he  said. 
"The  excitement  has  told.  I  will  remain — 
with  your  permission.  It  is  not  safe  to  leave 
her  now." 

The  voice  from  the  pillow  babbled  on  of  the 
old  school  -  days,  of  former  companions  and 
classmates,  of  girlish  revels,  of  the  quiet  gar 
den,  of  the  little  chapel,  of  favorite  Sisters. 
All  the  memories  of  the  old  convent  life  seemed 
124 


The  Girl  Who  Was 

to  rise  vividly  in  her  soul  at  the  sight  of  the 
black-veiled  heads  around  her.  Now  she  was 
in  the  class-room,  working  out  some  problem 
on  the  blackboard.  Now  she  was  preparing 
for  her  first  communion.  Again  it  was  Grad 
uation  day,  and  she  was  reading  her  valedic 
tory  to  her  assembled  friends.  Several  of  the 
sentences  came  back  to  her  and  were  repeated. 
Through  it  all  there  blossomed  the  rose-hued 
memory  of  home  —  home  —  home.  She  was 
leaving  home,  or  she  was  coming  home,  but  of 
the  black  years  that  lay  between  the  departure 
and  the  return  there  was  not  one  word. 

"She  is  going  fast,"  reflected  Dr.  Raymond. 

The  voices  of  the  distant  choir,  singing  in 
the  chapel,  rose  mournfully  on  the  music  of 
Millard's  Mass.  The  Convent  Girl  sat  up  in 
bed,  her  eyes  ablaze  with  sudden  excitement. 

"Singing!"  she  cried  again.  "Why  don't 
I  sing?  I  know  that  music.  I  sang  it  in 
white.  Oui,  mes  amis!  Attendez."  And 
then,  from  the  lips  which  had  sung  the  songs 
that  disgraced  the  French  stage,  the  music  she 
had  learned  years  ago  from  Sister  Cecilia 
flowed  like  a  prayer. 

"  Qui  tollis,  Qui  tollis,  Qui  tollis  peccata 
mundi — " 

To  the  listeners,  knowing  not  what  was  to 
come,  it  was  as  if  the  mouth  of  a  sewer  had 
125 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

opened  and  poured  forth  a  mountain  stream. 
The  faint,  exquisite  voice  sang  on : 

"  Parce  nobis,  Domine.  Exaudi  nos,  Do- 
mine;  miserere  nobis." 

A  sudden  change  caught  the  doctor's  eye. 
He  sprang  to  the  bedside  as  the  voice  stopped 
abruptly. 

"The  lights  are  out,"  she  said.  "I  can't 
sing — in  the  dark." 

In  answer  to  the  doctor's  quick  signal,  one 
of  the  nuns  hastily  left  the  room.  When  she 
returned  the  chaplain  of  the  convent  was  with 
her.  He  administered  the  last  sacraments, 
while  the  brown  eyes  of  the  dying  woman 
gazed  at  him  unseeingly. 

"She  may  rally  even  yet,"  the  doctor  said, 
"  for  a  few  hours,  but  I  fear  not.  I  think  the 
end  is  very  near." 

The  priest,  the  Superior,  some  Sisters,  and 
the  doctor  waited  patiently. 

"All  the  lights  are  out,"  murmured  the  Con 
vent  Girl,  piteously;  "how  shall  I  find  my 
way?" 

The  lids  closed,  and  the  thin  face  was  drawn 
like  a  child's  about  to  cry.  The  Sisters  had 
sunk  upon  their  knees.  Dr.  Raymond  stood 
immovable,  his  gaze  riveted  on  the  seemingly 
breathless  form.  There  was  a  heavy  silence 
in  the  room. 

126 


The  Girl   Who  Was 

Suddenly  her  eyes  opened  wide  with  a  con 
tented  wonder  in  them. 

"Oh,  the  light!"  she  gasped.  "You  must 
let  me  in.  See,  I  have  worn  it — always." 

Her  thin  hand  tremulously  sought  for  the 
cross  upon  her  neck.  Dr.  Raymond  bent  and 
placed  it  within  her  grasp.  There  was  one 
short  flutter  of  content  as  she  touched  it.  Then 
the  Convent  Girl  was  still. 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 


HE  friends  of  Alice  Twombly  re 
ceived  the  news  of  her  decision  with 
enthusiasm  mingled  with  gratitude. 
A  beauty  and  prospective  heiress, 
she  was  already  sufficiently  interesting  to  add 
zest  to  the  lives  of  those  around  her.  As  a 
nun  also — there  was  no  end  to  the  dramatic 
possibilities  of  the  situation !  For  the  charm  of 
it  all,  they  said,  lay  in  the  fact  that  she  was 
not  to  enter  a  convent.  There  she  would  be 
shut  away  behind  stone  walls,  and  however 
fascinating  her  experience  might  be,  the  knowl 
edge  of  it  could  not  reach  the  outer  world. 

As  a  member  of  the  Third  Order,  however, 
she  could  remain  in  the  world,  hold  her  place  in 
society,  entertain  and  be  entertained,  and  give 
herself  up  to  such  good  works  as  lay  ready  to 
her  hand.  She  might  even  marry,  if  she  wished. 
In  fact,  so  far  as  outward  appearance  went, 
there  would  be  little  or  nothing  to  distinguish 
her  life  from  that  of  the  usual  society  girl.  She 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

would  wear  no  habit,  of  course — though  there 
was  a  rumor  that  she  intended  to  dress  entirely 
in  white.  She  would,  no  doubt,  be  very  strict 
in  the  observance  of  her  religious  duties  as  a 
zealous  Catholic ;  but  these,  they  inferred,  mere 
ly  implied  daily  attendance  at  mass  and  a  good 
deal  of  prayer  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  rooms. 
How  much  wiser  this  compromise,  they  gos 
siped,  than  to  immure  herself  in  a  convent  as 
she  had  wished  to  do  after  her  graduation. 
And  how  absorbing  it  would  all  be  to  the 
looker-on!  They  sent  her  notes  of  good  will 
and  congratulation.  Then  they  settled  com 
fortably  back  in  the  orchestra  chairs  of  their 
social  circle  and  waited  to  see  what  she  would 
do  next. 

What  she  did  was  to  yield  to  some  rather 
gloomy  forebodings.  It  had  not  been  of  her 
own  choice,  this  compromise  so  heartily  ap 
proved  by  her  friends.  It  made  her,  she  re 
flected,  sadly,  neither  the  nun  she  longed  to 
be  nor  the  worldling  her  people  wished  her. 
She  had  pined  for  the  cloister's  quiet  shelter 
and  had  begged  permission  to  follow  her  choice, 
yet  she  had  been  quick  to  admit  that  a  certain 
element  of  selfishness  lay  in  the  aspiration. 
Why  should  she  leave  the  father  and  mother 
whose  only  child  she  was,  whose  love  for  her 
and  pride  in  her  were  so  great,  whose  willing- 
132 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

ness  to  help  her  in  good  works  in  the  world 
was  so  sincere?  Surely  they  were  right  in 
feeling  that  there  was  much  to  be  done  out 
side  the  cloister  walls — poverty  to  be  lightened, 
suffering  to  be  relieved,  a  good  example  to  be 
set  to  those  of  her  own  circle  whose  thoughts 
were  exclusively  on  worldly  things.  She  did 
not  wish  to  set  herself  up  as  a  model,  yet  per 
haps  she  could  show  them  that  life  was  some 
thing  more  than  the  gay  measure  they  thought 
it.  She  would  remain  with  her  people  and  do 
her  work,  but  neither  her  parents  nor  others 
realized  how  great  the  sacrifice  seemed  to  her. 
For  Miss  Twombly  was  taking  herself  very 
seriously,  which,  perhaps,  was  due  in  part  to 
her  extreme  youth  and  in  part  to  a  lack  of  the 
saving  grace  of  humor. 

After  a  year  or  two  had  passed,  however, 
she  found  herself  doing  with  eager  hands  and 
a  lighter  heart  the  wrork  around  her.  They 
had  been  right  —  those  friends  who  advised 
her  when  she  was  graduated.  The  great  world 
held  infinite  opportunities  for  a  woman  with 
health,  youth,  charity,  and  wealth.  It  was 
worth  while,  this  chosen  career  of  hers,  broken 
into  though  it  was  by  the  demands  of  that 
other  social  life  which  must  be  lived  as  well. 
She  kept  faithfully  to  the  bargain  she  had 
made  with  her  father  and  mother.  A  certain 
133 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

part  of  her  time  was  held  for  them,  for  home, 
for  friends  and  social  duties.  The  remainder 
was  her  own,  to  be  spent  as  she  pleased  and 
where  she  pleased.  Society  did  not  know  as 
much  about  her  career  as  it  wished,  but  it 
heard  and  saw  enough  to  be  highly  diverted. 
It  knew  that  the  charming  girl  in  white  was 
equally  at  home  and  equally  welcome  in  draw 
ing  -  rooms  and  tenements,  with  box  parties 
and  in  hospitals,  on  tally-hos  and  in  prison 
wards.  Sharp  contrasts  add  spice  to  life,  and 
here  were  contrasts  to  satisfy  the  most  exact 
ing.  With  it  all  Miss  Twombly  was  fasci 
nating,  and  full  of  charms  which  made  many 
youths  sigh  hopelessly  and  long. 

"Sister  Alice,"  as  they  called  her — she  had 
no  claim  to  the  title,  but  society  gave  it  and 
clung  to  it  as  a  dramatic  accessory  to  the  situa 
tion — was  strangely  wanting  in  sympathy  for 
these  young  men.  Marriage  was  not  a  part  of 
the  programme  she  had  arranged  for  herself. 
She  meant  to  devote  her  life,  she  said,  to  her 
Work.  This  was  a  frequent  remark  of  hers, 
and  as  she  spoke  her  face  showed  that  the  de 
cision  was  sincerely  made.  She  was  serenely 
happy;  she  felt  no  need  of  love  or  companion 
ship  other  than  that  given  by  her  own  people 
and  the  poor.  The  very  suggestion  of  matri 
mony,  she  told  her  mother,  was  almost  an  af- 

134 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

front.  It  was  asking  her  to  give  up,  to  the 
selfishness  of  one  man,  her  Opportunities  for 
Good.  Her  mother  sighed,  but  said  noth 
ing.  Then  Dr.  Richard  Schuyler  crossed  Miss 
Twombly's  line  of  vision,  occasionally  at  first, 
then  frequently — and  at  last  it  seemed  always 
to  include  him. 

There  was  no  sudden  upheaval  in  the  expe 
rience — nor  was  there  at  first  any  apparent  less 
ening  of  interest  in  her  career.  In  fact,  weeks 
and  months  passed  before  she  even  dimly  real 
ized  how  important  a  place  the  quiet  doctor  was 
taking  in  her  life.  He  was  a  great  man  in  his 
little  world — a  wonderful  surgeon  whose  opera 
tions  were  watched  and  talked  about.  As  she 
came  to  know  him  better,  meeting  him  often  in 
the  hospitals  she  visited,  she  had  a  vague  mem 
ory  of  having  heard  much  gossip  concerning  him 
during  her  school-days.  There  had  been  some 
remarkable  story  of  a  love  affair — an  unfortu 
nate  one — in  his  early  life.  That  must  have 
been  long  ago,  she  reflected.  He  was  over  forty 
now.  The  age  seemed  far  advanced  to  the  girl 
of  twenty-one.  But  he  was  plainly  not  the  vic 
tim  of  a  corroding  grief.  He  was  cheerful,  well 
poised,  ambitious,  a  little  self  -  centred,  she 
thought,  but  full  of  a  beautiful  sympathy  of 
which  she  found  the  practical  wake  in  her  vis 
its.  Her  poor  people  adored  him.  From  these. 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

and  from  her  society  friends  she  heard  of  him 
constantly.  He  seemed,  like  herself,  equally 
well  known  in  both  circles.  She  was  surprised 
and  pleased  to  discover  that  his  presence  at 
social  affairs  she  was  forced  to  attend  made 
those  functions  unusually  endurable  to  her.  Of 
course,  she  reasoned,  the  explanation  of  this 
lay  in  the  edifying  conversations  they  held  con 
cerning  their  common  interests  in  the  slums. 
His  hospitals,  her  model  tenements  and  settle 
ments,  were  subjects  worthy  of  the  attention  of 
intelligent  minds.  But  subsequently  she  re 
membered  that  evenings  equally  enjoyable  and 
brief  in  the  passing  had  been  spent  by  them 
in  animated  conversations  on  topics  of  music 
and  literature.  Her  proteges  had  not  been  in 
troduced,  even  parenthetically.  The  reflection 
was  startling  to  Miss  Twombly,  whose  con 
science  immediately  touched  a  warning  bell. 
When  Dr.  Schuyler  met  her  after  that  they 
worried  the  meat  from  the  conversational  bone 
of  Sanitary  Tenement  Buildings  and  parted 
with  mutual  dissatisfaction.  It  was  at  this 
point  that  Miss  Twombly  obviously  shunned 
Dr.  Schuyler,  while  society,  with  an  expan 
sive  smile,  proceeded  to  fix  its  eyes  upon  the 
two.  Here,  also,  this  tale  properly  begins. 

Love,  when  it  becomes  part  of  the  experience 
of  a  repressed  and  self-contained  girl  with  a 
136 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

Life  Work,  usually  fills  up  the  foreground  of 
her  existence  as  completely  as  if  it  were  the 
Sphinx  itself.  Miss  Twombly  observed  this. 
She  tried  to  get  over  or  around  the  tremen 
dous  fact  that  bounded  her,  but  wherever  she 
turned  it  was  there.  She  was  surprised  at  first, 
then  incredulous,  then  annoyed,  and  finally 
alarmed.  Being  an  introspective  and  ex 
tremely  conscientious  person,  she  made  an 
analysis  of  her  mental  condition  and  discov 
ered  these  things : 

That  she  spent  a  surprising  amount  of  time 
in  thought  concerning  Dr.  Schuyler  —  this 
thought  occupying  itself  with  such  trivial 
details  as  idle  remarks  he  had  made,  the  color 
of  the  clothes  he  wore,  a  certain  expression  his 
eyes  took  on,  the  white  flash  of  his  teeth  as  he 
smiled. 

That  she  was  holding  imaginary  conversa 
tions  with  him,  in  the  course  of  which  she  as 
tonished  and  delighted  him  by  the  aptness  and 
brilliancy  of  her  remarks. 

That  when  she  made  her  visits  it  seemed  de 
sirable  to  go  very  often  to  the  hospitals  he  fre 
quented.  That  when  she  got  there  her  calls 
resolved  themselves  into  a  strained  looking  and 
listening  for  a  glimpse  of  him  and  the  sound 
of  his  voice. 

That  it  gave  her  great  pleasure  to  hear  her 

1.37 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

humble  friends  talk  of  him,  and  that  she  was 
wont  to  prolong  these  conversations  to  a  re 
markable  length. 

That  she  liked  to  be  alone — and  longed  to 
be  alone  with  him. 

That  she  had  developed  an  abnormal  curi 
osity  about  that  vague  old  love  affair  of  his 
— and  was  afraid  to  ask  any  one  concerning  it. 

Having  discovered  that  in  such  lines  her  in 
clinations  lay,  Miss  Twombly  conscientiously 
refrained  from  doing  any  of  these  things.  She 
plunged  into  work  feverishly  for  a  day  or  two, 
even  though  at  the  end  of  that  time  she  knew 
she  must  laboriously  fight  her  battle  all  over 
again.  It  was  humiliating  to  a  proud  spirit, 
but  it  had  to  be  endured.  Dr.  Schuyler  did 
not  materially  aid  the  situation  when,  having 
himself  fought  a  similar  fight  in  vain,  he 
came  to  her  like  a  man  and  asked  her  to  be 
his  wife. 

Alice  Twombly  took  her  Life  Work  as  a  di 
vinely-appointed  mission.  Never  before  had 
she  been  tempted  from  it.  Here,  she  reflected, 
was  a  Test,  to  try  her  soul.  Perhaps,  who 
knows,  the  devil  himself  was  in  it!  True,  she 
had  taken  no  vows  of  celibacy.  But  who  did 
not  know  that  matrimony  blasted  woman's  ca 
reer?  What  of  her  poor,  what  of  her  place  in 
the  Third  Order,  if  she  became  Dr.  Schuyler's 

138 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

wife?     He  himself  admitted  that  he  realized  how 
much  he  was  asking  her  to  give  up. 

"I  am  not  going  to  let  you  answer  me  at 
once/'  he  said,  with  the  masterfulness  she  se 
cretly  loved.  "  You  would  refuse  me  off-hand, 
and  we  can't  have  that,  you  know,  before  you 
have  given  some  thought  to  the  attractions  of 
this  proposition."  He  was  smiling,  but  she 
noticed  that  he  wras  very  pale. 

"Let  me  say  at  once,"  he  went  on,  "that 
there  is  no  woman  in  the  world  for  me  but 
you.  For  years  no  woman  has  had  more 
than  a  passing  thought  of  mine.  One  did — 
when  I  was  a  young  man.  We  were  engaged, 
and  she — changed  her  mind.  It  was  a  hard 
blow,  but  I  got  over  it.  Now  I  love  you  as  a 
man  loves  in  his  mature  manhood.  There  will 
never  be  another  woman  for  me.  I  will  make 
you  happy.  I  will  help  you  in  your  work. 
You  shall  live  your  own  life — only  let  me  share 
it.  Let  me  put  into  it  the  love  that  should  be 
in  it — such  love  as  no  woman  can  afford  to  put 
away  from  her,  no  matter  what  else  the  world 
offers  her.  I  have  wealth  and  position  equal 
to  your  own.  Let  us  combine  our  opportuni 
ties  and  work  together.  Promise  me  you  will 
think  of  it — that  you  will  not  turn  me  away 
without  letting  your  heart  speak  for  me.  Think 
it  over.  That  is  all  I  ask — now." 
139 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

She  thought  it  over.  It  was  with  infinite 
difficulty  that  she  thought  of  anything  else. 
And  in  those  thoughts  what  wronderful  color 
ing  this  old  gray  world  took  on!  It  was  a  test, 
she  thought,  in  her  young  ignorance.  She 
would  bear  it  well,  but  she  would  give  her 
self  a  few  days  to  revel  in  dreams — to  look 
over  her  bars  at  the  smiling  fields  beyond — 
to  know  the  fulness  of  the  joy  that  might  be 
hers — before  she  turned  away.  She  would 
not  yield — she  would  not  give  up  her  people 
and  her  work  and  her  gentle  cloister  friends. 
Somehow,  it  was  a  fixed  conclusion  with  her 
that  she  could  not  have  him  and  them,  too. 
It  was  well  enough  to  say  that  he  would  help 
her — no  doubt  he  meant  it.  But  she  thought 
she  knew  herself  too  well  to  believe  her  work 
could  be  the  vital  thing  it  had  been,  if  he  came 
into  her  life  as  he  wished  to  come.  Now  was 
the  time  to  show  the  earnestness  of  the  spirit 
in  which  she  had  joined  the  Third  Order.  Now 
was  the  time  for  a  Sacrifice.  Yet,  could  she 
give  him  up?  Her  problem  seemed  a  vital 
one  to  her;  her  suffering  was  very  real.  She 
was  quite  capable  of  turning  away  the  pre 
cious  thing  that  had  come  into  her  life.  She 
knew  its  sweetness,  but  she  did  not  dream  of 
its  real  worth. 

In  the  mean  time  the  days  had  gone  by,  and 
140 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

she  had  not  given  him  his  answer.  She  wrote 
and  specified  a  certain  night  when  he  was  to 
come  for  it.  She  told  herself  reproachfully  that 
she  had  been  neglecting  her  poor,  putting  the 
real  things  of  life  from  her  while  she  dreamed 
idle  dreams.  She  thought  she  despised  her 
self.  She  repeated  this  to  herself  as  time  pass 
ed,  and  the  eventful  day  came.  She  would 
give  him  his  answer  that  night,  and  it  should 
be  "No."  Perhaps,  after  it,  she  could  settle 
again  into  the  old  routine  in  which  she  had 
plodded  so  patiently  before  he  came.  It  should 
be  "No."  She  wondered  if  she  would  better 
write  it,  but  decided  against  that.  She  would 
see  him  once  more.  They  would  have  at  least 
a  parting  —  something  to  recall  in  the  dreary 
days  to  come ;  and  in  the  mean  time  she  would 
fortify  herself  by  a  little  visit  to  the  convent. 
In  the  chapel,  and  with  the  nuns,  she  would 
find  strength  for  the  renunciation  she  had  de 
termined  finally  and  definitely  to  make. 

She  drove  to  the  old  building  and  waited  in 
the  convent  garden  for  her  favorite  among 
the  inmates — Sister  George.  The  world  itself 
seemed  to  be  in  league  against  her  as  she  sat 
by  the  sleepy  fountain,  for  all  nature  was  a 
love -song  that  June  day.  Over  her  arched 
the  blue  sky,  and  across  its  mirror  birds 
skimmed,  dropping  a  shower  of  jubilant  notes. 
141 


Tales  of  the   Cloister 

The  odor  of  mignonette  and  geranium  floated 
to  her  from  the  old-fashioned  flower-beds  blos 
soming  around  her.  In  the  trees  above  the 
peep  of  nestlings  was  heard — even  here,  where 
she  had  come  for  peace,  the  birds  flaunted 
their  domestic  happiness  in  her  face.  She 
wondered  whether  she  was  getting  a  little 
morbid,  and  was  glad  the  approach  of  Sister 
George  interrupted  her  gloomy  reverie.  The 
nun  sat  down  beside  her  with  a  smile  of  wel 
come,  for  the  two  had  been  friends  for  years 
and  formal  greetings  no  longer  existed  for 
them.  It  did  not  need  an  especially  observ 
ant  eye  to  see  that  something  was  very  wrong 
with  the  young  girl  so  dear  to  the  nuns,  and 
Sister  George  looked  at  her  with  an  anxious 
sympathy  in  her  glance. 

"  What  is  it  now?"  she  asked,  gently.  "  More 
trouble  with  Sarah  McGuire,  or  have  your  plans 
for  the  model  tenements  proved  unsatisfactory?" 

The  girl  leaned  her  head  against  the  lat 
tice-work  of  the  arbor,  and  a  quizzical  thought 
shot  across  her  tired  mind.  Why  approach  the 
subject  by  devious  ways?  Why  work  up  to 
it  through  Sarah  McGuire  and  the  tenements? 
Why  not  lay  it  before  this  old  friend  at  once 
and  tersely,  even  though  the  sudden  revela 
tion  might  startle  the  gentle  nun?  She  spoke 
on  the  impulse. 

142 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

"Neither/'  she  said,  slowly.  "It  is  a  love 
affair/'  She  turned  her  eyes  from  the  smil 
ing  garden  and  fixed  them  on  Sister  George's 
face  with  much  the  same  look  they  had  held 
years  before  when  she  had  childish  confes 
sions  to  make.  The  nun's  cheeks  flushed  a 
delicate  pink. 

"Really?"  she  said,  and  gazed  back  incred 
ulously.  The  opening  was  not  encouraging, 
but  the  barriers  of  the  other's  self-control  had 
been  let  down,  and  the  recital  poured  out  rapidly. 

"Yes,  it  is,"  she  said.  "Don't  despise  me 
for  it;  don't  think  I  am  weak  and  foolish  and 
that  I  am  losing  interest  in  my  work  and  will 
give  it  up.  Don't  think  that,  for  I  shall  re 
fuse  to  marry — to-night  I  am  to  give  him  his 
answer.  I  have  decided,  and  I  think  now  I 
shall  not  even  see  him  again."  She  broke  into 
a  little  sob.  "Oh,  Sister,"  she  added,  "it  is 
very  hard."  There  was  a  volume  of  uncon 
scious  self-betrayal  in  the  last  sentence. 

The  nun  stroked  her  bent  head  and  stared 
absently  at  the  smooth  coils  of  hair  under  her 
hands.  What  could  she  say  or  do?  What 
light  had  she  for  such  a  moment?  They  of 
the  cloister  had  long  doubted  the  child's  con 
tinuance  in  her  chosen  career;  not  that  they 
lacked  faith  in  her,  but  because  they  knew  the 
ways  of  life. 

143 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

"The  man/'  she  hazarded;  "he  must  be 
good  if  you  care  for  him." 

"He  is — he  is  all  that  is  good/'  came  the 
stifled  tones  from  the  head  now  buried  in  her 
lap.  "He  is  so  kind,  so  generous,  he  does  so 
much  for  my  poor  people.  It  was  through 
them  that  I  met  him,  for  he  works  among  them 
too.  He  is  Dr.  Richard  Schuyler." 

The  nun  looked  at  the  water  bubbling  in 
the  fountain  near  them.  A  gold-fish  came  up 
to  the  surface,  and  she  followed  its  graceful 
motions  with  intent  interest  until  it  dropped 
again  to  the  bottom  of  the  little  pool. 

"Every  one  seems  to  speak  of  him,  and  all 
speak  well,"  she  said,  slowly.  Then  she  sat 
for  a  few  moments  in  silence  and  deep  thought. 

The  voice  of  the  other  ran  on,  and  the  nun 
listened,  though  her  mind  was  busy.  Her 
brain  worked  out  in  detail  the  situation  be 
tween  the  man  and  the  sweet  but  almost  fanat 
ical  girl  who  might  give  up,  if  she  were  per 
mitted,  the  happiness  of  a  lifetime.  It  was  all 
clear  enough. 

"He  says  he  will  help  me  in  my  work,"  said 
Alice,  faintly.  "I  think  he  would,  too,  and 
yet  I  am  afraid  we  might  fail,  and  grow  ab 
sorbed  and  selfish.  I  put  all  these  things 
away  from  me,  you  know,  when  I  made  my 
profession.  Yet  now  a  thousand  temptations 
144 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

have  come  to  me.  I  go  over  it  all  again  and 
again.  I  picture  to  myself  what  life  would 
be  with  him — and  then  I  turn  from  it.  I  once 
promised  myself  that  I  would  never  abandon 
my  poor  people.  I  shall  keep  that  vow  if  it 
kills  me.  To-night  I  shall  tell  him  so.  You 
must  help  me  to  be  strong.  It  is  very  hard," 
she  repeated,  pitifully. 

The  nun  straightened  herself  with  a  sud 
den  air  of  decision. 

"Sit  up,  Alice,"  she  said.  "I  want  you  to 
look  at  me."  She  took  the  girl's  face  between 
her  hands  and  looked  deep  into  the  eyes  that 
showed  her  how  genuine  the  other's  suffering 
had  been.  There  was  an  unusual  tenderness 
in  her  manner  as  she  continued. 

"I  shall  try  to  help  you,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
"  but  not  in  the  way  you  wish.  I  think — I  am 
almost  sure — you  should  marry  Dr.  Schuyler. 
We  have  felt  here  that  we  could  not  keep  you 
always:  we  have  believed  that  the  One  Man 
would  some  day  come  for  you.  Is  he  not  here?" 

She  looked  steadily  at  the  startled  face  up 
turned  to  her  own,  and  smiled  reassuringly  at 
the  incredulity  it  showed  so  plainly. 

"I  have  been  thinking  it  all  over  as  we  sat 
here,"  she  resumed.  "Look  at  me.  No  Sis 
ter  in  the  Order  is  more  content  in  her  choice 
than  I.  Never  for  one  moment  have  I  regret- 
K  145 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

ted  making  the  decision  that  brought  me  here. 
Yet  even  I,  happy  in  my  vocation,  beg  you  to 
think  again  before  you  turn  away  from  the 
love  of  a  good  man.  Your  place  is  in  the 
world.  Your  work  lies  there.  Will  it  be  done 
less  well  if  you  have  help  in  it?" 

She  stopped  a  moment.  The  girl  still  stared 
at  her,  surprised  beyond  speech.  Her  aston 
ishment  was  vividly  written  in  her  face,  and 
the  nun  smiled  in  perfect  understanding  of  her 
thoughts. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  resumed  Sister  George, 
slowly,  "that  you  are  in  danger  of  becoming 
a  little  morbid  in  your  attitude.  Because  this 
step  would  mean  happiness,  you  feel  that  you 
should  put  it  from  you.  Yet  why?  God  did 
not  put  us  into  the  world  to  be  miserable.  Dr. 
Schuyler  is  a  Catholic,  and  he  loves  the  work 
you  love.  Why  should  you  doubt  that  he  will 
keep  his  wrord?  He  helped  the  poor  long  years 
before  he  knew  you.  His  interest  in  them  was 
for  them,  not  recently  acquired,  or  through 
any  wish  to  please  you.  He  seems  the  ideal 
mate  for  you,  dear  child — the  one  who  would 
double  your  power  for  the  comfort  and  relief  of 
the  poor  you  love  to  help." 

"  I  did  not  suppose  you  would  feel  this  way," 
murmured  the  girl.  She  felt,  indeed,  as  if  a 
rock  that  held  her  up  had  given  way.  Yet 
146 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

she  felt,  too,  strangely  buoyant  without  the 
support  she  had  expected. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  nun,  gently.  "Am 
I  not  human?  Should  I,  because  I  am  hap 
py  here,  urge  you  to  a  life  of  loneliness  out 
side?  For  some  day,  dear  little  girl,  when 
youth  is  gone  and  your  parents  are  dead  and 
your  friends  have  fallen  away,  life  in  that  big, 
hungry  world  would  be  terrible.  Then  you 
might  carry  into  your  old  age  a  regret  for 
what  you  have  missed,  and  regret  is  a  bitter 
companion  for  one's  declining  days." 

Alice  Twombly  listened  in  silence.  How 
different  was  the  advice  from  what  she  had 
expected,  and  how  sweet!  The  mellow,  beau 
tiful  voice  beside  her  was  answering  all  her 
doubts,  quieting  all  her  fears,  leading  her 
back  to  the  sane  and  normal  point  of  view 
she  had  so  resolutely  put  away  from  her.  She 
would  take  the  advice  of  this  good  friend  who 
knew  what  was  best.  One  word  from  Sister 
George  had  always  had  more  weight  with  her 
than  much  advice  from  others.  She  would  say 
"Yes,"  and  the  world  would  be  brighter  and 
better  because  there  were  two  supremely  happy 
people  in  it. 

And  now  that  it  was  decided,  let  the  birds 
burst  their  little  throats  in  song!  Their  flood 
of  melody  was  merely  an  expression  of  the  joy 
147 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

that  filled  her  heart.  Oh,  Life — what  a  mar 
vellous  thing  it  was!  And  what  an  instructor 
was  this  Love,  that  gave  the  birds  speech  which 
humans  understood  and  made  eloquent  the  rip 
pling  water  and  the  growing  plants.  The  very 
perfume  that  came  to  her  seemed  a  message 
from  him.  Yes?  Why,  the  whole  world  was 
saying  "  Yes  "  this  moment ! 

Sister  George  brought  her  back  to  her  sur 
roundings  with  a  gentle  shake  that  was  a 
caress. 

"  Think  well,  little  sister,  before  you  turn  Dr. 
Schuyler  from  you,"  she  said  again.  "There 
is  no  doubt  of  your  love  for  him.  Even  I,  shut 
away  from  all  these  things,  can  read  it  in  your 
eyes.  The  very  insects  around  us  to-day  have 
your  secret,  my  self-absorbed  young  friend." 

Alice  caught  her  hand  between  her  own  and 
kissed  it. 

"Thank  you,"  she  breathed.  "You  have 
shown  me  the  way.  I  shall  take  it;  I  shall 
say  '  Yes '  to-night.  Yes, — yes, — yes !" 

The  nun  bent  and  kissed  her  on  the  fore 
head.  "God  bless  you,"  she  said,  "and  make 
you  happy.  About  the  future  you  need  have, 
I  think,  no  foreboding.  Dr.  Schuyler  is  not  a 
man  to  break  his  word."  She  looked  up  over 
the  garden  as  she  spoke.  For  the  girl  at  her 
side,  life  was  beginning  to  expand.  For  her  it 
148 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

was  bounded  by  those  high  walls,  softened  by 
their  covering  of  ivy,  but  hard  and  cold  under 
its  green  mass.  Yet  she  felt  no  regrets.  Alice 
smiled  at  her  radiantly  as  they  rose  to  go  to  the 
chapel. 

"One  would  think  you  knew  him,"  she  said, 
dreamily.  "You  seem  to  understand  him  so 
well."  Sister  George  looked  down  from  her 
stately  height  with  a  curious  expression  in  her 
gray  eyes. 

"  We  have  not  always  lived  here,  you  know/' 
she  said,  gently. 

The  slender  figure  beside  her  skimmed  along 
the  garden  path  without  answering.  Miss 
Twombly  had  reached  the  point  in  her  reverie 
where  Dr.  Schuyler  was  ushered  into  the  libra 
ry,  to  find  her  there  alone.  He  would  ask  for 
his  answer  and  he  would  find  it  ready.  She 
hardly  heard  the  nun's  words. 

She  recalled  them  as  she  sat  in  the  library 
that  evening — alone  with  Richard.  The  soft 
evening  air  blew  in  through  the  open  windows, 
and  on  it  was  the  scent  of  the  growing  things 
outside.  High  in  the  heavens  hung  the  moon, 
the  face  in  it  smiling  at  the  two  as  if  they  alone, 
of  all  those  in  the  world,  were  looking  at  it  with 
lovers'  eyes.  Some  one  in  the  neighboring 
house  was  playing  softly  on  the  piano.  The 
149 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

notes  came  to  them  very  plainly  on  the  night 
air.  It  was  a  gay  little  waltz,  with  the  under 
current  of  sentiment  that  creeps  into  all  the 
music  of  Germany.  Its  seductive  invitation 
brought  them  close  together,  and  they  stood 
at  the  window  looking  out  at  the  night,  Alice 
nestling  in  the  strong  arm  of  the  man  beside 
her.  She  studied  his  face  adoringly  in  the 
soft  light.  There  was  a  trace  of  gray  in  the 
dark  curls  on  his  well-shaped  head.  One  lock 
on  the  left  side  was  almost  white.  She  had 
noticed  it  again  and  again  in  the  last  few 
months,  and  it  had  somehow  had  a  singu 
larly  vivid  place  in  her  thoughts  when  she 
considered  giving  him  up.  Now,  that  lock 
belonged  to  her  with  the  rest  of  him.  She 
decided  to  kiss  it  at  the  first  opportunity. 

Through  the  portieres  that  separated  the 
library  from  the  music-room  came  the  voice  of 
her  father,  raised  in  more  jubilant  tones  than 
she  had  heard  from  him  in  years.  She  smiled 
as  she  listened.  How  happy,  how  joyfully 
happy  he  and  her  mother  were  over  to-night's 
betrothal ! 

It  had  taken  all  Mrs.  Twombly's  tact  to 
draw  her  delighted  husband  out  of  the  room 
and  to  make  him  grasp  the  fact  that  the  lovers 
might  like  an  hour  together.  He  longed  to  sit 
with  them  and  smoke  and  let  his  eyes  rest  on 
150 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

this  paragon  daughter  of  his  while  he  talked 
to  the  fine  fellow  who  would  anchor  her  for 
ever  out  in  the  busy  world,  safely  away  from 
the  convent  walls  he  had  feared  would  yet  close 
around  her.  To  him,  the  convent  had  been  a 
hungry  thing,  reaching  out  long  arms  to  grasp 
his  treasure. 

She  had  made  many  happy  by  this  choice  of 
hers — herself  the  happiest  of  all.  Sister  George 
was  pleased,  too — Sister  George,  no  doubt  tuck 
ed  away  now  in  her  little  cell,  peacefully  asleep. 
At  the  thought  a  sudden  memory  stirred  in 
the  girl's  mind. 

"Dick,"  she  said, — how  easily  and  naturally 
the  name  came  to  her  lips! — "do  you  know 
that  you  really  owe  me  to  a  nun?  I  had  de 
cided  to-day  to — to  give  you  up.  I  don't  know 
how  I  could  have  done  it  as  I  look  back  now, 
but  I  was  determined.  And  Sister  George 
brought  me  to  my  senses.  She  really  made  a 
very  eloquent  plea  for  you.  You  should  have 
heard  it.  And  by-the-way, "  she  added,  suddenly, 
"she  spoke  as  if  she  knew  you.  I  hardly  no 
ticed  it  at  the  time,  but  now  I  recall  it.  She  has 
been  in  the  convent  twenty  years,  but  somebody 
told  me  once  that  when  she  entered  her  family 
lived  in  Boston.  Her  name  in  the  world  was 
Margaret  Canterbury.  It  seems  too  strange  to 
be  true,  but  do  you  know  anything  about  her?" 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Dr.  Schuyler  was  silent.  Did  he  know  her? 
There  had  been  years  through  which  he  had 
felt  that  death  itself  could  not  take  her  from 
his  thoughts.  Days  of  loss,  nights  of  bitter 
pain,  years  of  loneliness  and  longing  for  the 
woman  who  had  sent  him  back  his  ring  and 
shut  herself  away  from  him  behind  convent 
walls — all  these  came  back  to  him  now.  She 
had  been  right  to  follow  the  call  that  came  to 
her;  that  he  had  admitted  even  at  the  time. 
She  had  been  young  when  she  plighted  her 
troth  to  him,  and  had  not  known  her  own 
mind.  Later,  as  the  voice  of  her  vocation 
grew  clear  and  strong,  she  had  been  so  frank 
with  him,  so  honest.  He  recalled  their  last 
interview  and  the  tears  in  her  deep  eyes. 

Twenty  years  ago!  Had  it  been  so  long  as 
that!  The  time  had  seemed  eternal  in  pass 
ing,  especially  those  first  years  when  he  had 
tried  so  vainly  to  seek  forgetfulness  and  peace 
in  work  and  travel.  Margaret  Canterbury  re 
membered  him,  and  after  all  these  years  had 
sent  to  him,  from  her  cloister  shelter,  this  child 
to  take  her  place.  She  must  still  believe  in 
him — she  had  always  believed  in  him,  he  re 
flected,  gratefully.  She  had  given  him  trust 
and  admiration  when  he  asked  love.  Their 
engagement  had  been  a  mistake,  and  she  had 
seen  it.  His  mind  travelled  slowly  over  the 
152 


Belonging  to  the  Third  Order 

twenty  years.  Margaret  had  felt  regret  and 
something  like  remorse,  he  knew,  over  her 
share  in  his  disappointed  life.  Her  opportu 
nity  to  make  good  the  loss  had  come  to  her, 
and  how  promptly  she  had  grasped  it!  She 
had  given  him  full  measure  of  good  for  the 
harm  she  had  so  unwillingly  done — full  to 
overflowing.  Through  the  years  there  had 
been  a  little  bitterness  mingled  with  the  love 
in  his  thoughts  of  her;  he  was  only  human. 
But  the  last  drop  of  that  disappeared  in  this 
hour  of  his  happiness  and  her  association 
with  it. 

He  drew  a  ring  from  his  finger.  It  was  a 
heavy  gold  one,  perfectly  plain,  and  on  the  in 
side  there  was  an  inscription  and  a  date : 

"Margaret  to  Richard,  1881." 

He  showed  it  to  his  betrothed,  and  then  slip 
ped  it  on  her  finger. 

"I  knew  her — this  well,"  he  said,  smiling 
into  the  eyes  of  his  new  love.  Then  he  added  : 

"When  you  see  her,  show  this  to  Sister 
George,  and  tell  her  it  never  left  my  finger 
since  Margaret  Canterbury  placed  it  there, 
until  to-night.  It  has  been  the  most  precious 
thing  in  my  life,  so  now  I  wish  my  wife  to 
wear  it." 


Under  the  Black  Pall 


Under  the  Black  Pall 


HEN  she  entered  St.  Mary's  it  seemed 
to  her  like  stepping  out  of  the  march 
ing  ranks  of  a  great  army  into  the 
cool  shade  of  a  way-side  chapel.  Life 
during  the  two  years  between  her  graduation 
and  this  return  to  the  convent  as  a  candidate 
for  the  veil  had  been  bearing  her  forward  too 
swiftly.  She  felt  breathless  from  its  rush,  panic- 
stricken  from  the  sense  of  pressure  on  all  sides, 
horrified  by  the  contrast  between  the  feverish 
turmoil  of  living  "out  in  the  world"  and  the 
restful  serenity  of  life  within  the  cloister  walls. 
Above  and  beyond  all,  a  great  loneliness  had 
oppressed  her  in  the  world.  What  had  she  in 
common  with  these  men  and  women  who 
smiled  at  her,  talked  to  her,  flattered  her,  and 
— cared  for  her  not  at  all? 

Everything  in  the  large  city  where  her  guar 
dian  lived  had  seemed  very  worldly  to  the  con 
vent  girl.     Those  she  met  had  been  so  selfish, 
so  sordid.     She  had  been  pathetically  shy  and 
157 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

innocent  and  inexperienced  when  she  went 
back  to  the  world  from  her  class-rooms,  but 
these  qualities  had  not  protected  her  from  the 
loss  of  many  illusions.  Her  companions  had 
taken  delight  in  destroying  them.  Repeated 
plunges  into  the  whirlpool  had  been  their 
method  of  combating  her  determination  to  re 
turn  to  the  convent  for  which  she  had  a  long 
ing — strange  and  inexplicable  even  to  her 
self — a  sort  of  Heimweh. 

When  she  left  the  institution  she  had  not 
been  conscious  of  the  breaking  of  any  very 
close  ties.  Her  strange  reserve  had  not  per 
mitted  her  to  form  them.  But  memory's  brush 
laid  warm  colors  on  the  days  that,  in  passing, 
had  seemed  gray  enough.  Her  earliest  memo 
ries  were  not  of  a  mother's  care,  but  of  that  of 
the  nuns  in  whose  charge  she  had  been  placed. 
Even  her  vacations  had  been  spent  with  them, 
by  her  own  choice.  Her  little  world  was  the 
world  in  which  they  lived.  The  quiet  garden 
was  her  fairyland.  The  dim  corridors  had 
been  peopled  with  the  creations  of  her  child 
hood  fancies  as  she  played  in  them  on  rainy 
days.  In  the  chapel  she  had  made  her  first 
confession,  her  heart  beating  so  loudly  that 
she  fancied  the  priest  and  the  silent  nun  in 
the  pew  nearest  the  confessional  might  hear  it 
and  wonder.  There,  too,  she  had  been  con- 
158 


Under  the  Black   Pall 

firmed  —  in  white,  with  her  little  companions 
around  her,  and  her  guardian's  family,  much 
impressed,  observing  the  scene  from  pews  con 
siderately  near  the  altar  railing. 

The  years  had  gone  by  quickly.  She  had 
been  conscious  of  no  especial  lack  in  the  affec 
tion  given  her.  If  there  had  been  a  vague 
feeling  of  its  insufficiency,  she  could  not  have 
told  why  it  was  so.  Her  days  were  busy  ones, 
filled  with  the  crowding  incidents  of  school  life 
that  seemed  at  that  time  all-important.  And 
then  had  come  the  excitement  of  the  last  school 
year  and  the  breaking  of  the  school-girl  ties. 
Her  classmates  were  bemoaning  their  separa 
tion  from  each  other.  None  expressed  deep  re 
gret  at  parting  from  her.  That  had  been  her 
first  little  trouble — and  it  had  not  seemed  small. 
Hitherto  there  had  been  the  prospect  of  reunion 
and  taking  up  next  year  the  threads  that  were 
dropped.  Now  everything  seemed  ended.  The 
future  stretched  before  her,  forlornly  gray  and 
bleak.  On  the  other  side  of  the  convent  walls 
lay  Life — something  to  be  worked  out  and  strug 
gled  over. 

Already  persons  were  saying  things  to  her 
about  responsibilities  and  the  duty  one  owed 
to  one's  position,  and  the  good  that  could  be 
done  with  money.  It  seemed  she  had  some 
money;  she  had  only  lightly  realized  it.  But 
159 


Tales   of  the  Cloister 

apparently  money  imposed  duties  upon  its  pos 
sessor  not  to  be  shirked.  She  must  go  out  into 
the  world,  make  her  debut,  and  become  a  part 
of  society.  She  had  been  dreaming  long 
enough,  her  guardian  added,  as  he  went  on 
to  outline  more  definitely  the  career  that  await 
ed  her.  She  listened  quietly,  hearing  above  his 
precise  utterances  the  murmur  of  girlish  voices 
down  in  the  garden,  the  soft  ringing  of  the 
chapel  bell,  the  almost  noiseless  footfalls  of 
shadowy  figures  moving  along  the  halls.  This 
was  home,  and  she  must  leave  it.  But  un 
der  the  regret  that  she  felt  and  the  homesick 
ness  that  already  assailed  her  there  was  a 
semi-conscious  thrill  of  expectancy.  After  all, 
she  was  young ;  and  a  new  and  promising  ex 
perience  awaited  her  which  might  bring  some 
of  the  happiness  that  had  heretofore  seemed 
exclusively  the  portion  of  others.  Who  could 
tell? 

Yet  when  the  moment  of  parting  came  she 
clung  to  the  dignified  Mother  Superior. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  go!"  she  cried,  in  a  sud 
den  melting  of  her  habitual  reserve.  "And  I 
will  come  back  if  you  will  take  me,  Reverend 
Mother,  when  I  am  of  age  and  my  own  mis 
tress.  You  will  take  me,  will  you  not?"  she 
had  asked,  with  a  sudden  doubt.  The  Supe 
rior  had  reassured  her  gently,  smiling  with  the 
1 60 


Under  the  Black  Pall 

calm  of  one  whose  life  it  was  to  know  many 
partings  and  to  give  no  undue  attention  to  in 
evitable  pulling  at  the  heart-strings. 

"We  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  you  with 
us  again,  dear  child/'  she  had  said.  "You 
must  feel  that  this  will  always  be  a  home  for 
you,  even  if  you  come  to  it  only  at  long  inter 
vals.  You  will  lead  a  busy  and,  I  hope,  a  use 
ful  and  happy  life.  Perhaps  you  can  do  as 
much  good  in  the  world  as  here — that  is  for 
you  to  decide.  Pray  over  it  earnestly;  exam 
ine  your  conscience  rigorously.  Do  nothing  in 
haste.  Whether  you  become  one  of  us  or  not, 
we  shall  always  hold  you  in  our  hearts." 

The  gentle  words  of  affection,  which  meant 
so  much  to  her  because  so  rarely  heard,  went 
with  her  into  the  world  and  became  a  creed 
by  which  she  half  consciously  regulated  her 
life.  Those  she  met  were  weighed  by  the  se 
vere  standard  of  the  convent,  and  found  want 
ing.  The  weakness,  the  frivolity,  the  strange 
ly  elastic  point  of  view  of  these  men  and  women 
troubled  her;  the  paganism  of  society  appalled 
the  convent  girl  who  went  to  mass  each  morn 
ing  and  lived  up  to  the  letter  of  her  religion. 
She  tried  to  do  her  duty  as  it  was  conceived  for 
her  by  others.  She  went  to  dinners,  to  balls 
and  parties,  and  felt  at  each  of  them  the  singu 
lar  aloofness  that  had  marked  her  life.  There 
L  161 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

were,  of  course,  pleasant  things  in  the  new  life, 
and  she  tried  to  find  them.  Once  or  twice  she 
threw  herself  into  the  gayeties  of  the  season 
with  an  abandon  that  surprised  her  friends  and 
horrified  her  into  rigorous  penance  when  the 
reaction  came.  It  was  all  a  part  of  the  experi 
ment,  of  the  test  she  had  resolved  to  make. 
Once  only  the  question  of  marriage  had  for  a 
moment  seemed  of  a  vital  importance  it  had 
never  worn  for  her  before.  It  was  when  the 
Honorable  Edward  Carrington,  of  England, 
asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  When  she  said  no 
it  was  with  the  feeling  that  had  he  sought  her 
with  more  convincing  ardor  something  in  her 
soul  would  have  awakened.  She  would  not 
marry  unless  her  heart  was  touched,  and  per 
functory  attention  could  not  stir  that  to  love. 

Through  all,  the  convent  seemed  to  call  to  her. 
"We  shall  always  hold  you  in  our  hearts,"  the 
Superior  had  said.  No  one  else  had  ever  said 
as  much.  Under  the  most  brilliant  ballroom 
music,  the  notes  of  the  chapel  organ  throbbed 
in  her  ears.  No  banquet  hall  was  so  attrac 
tive  as  the  memory  of  the  stone  refectory  with 
the  silent  nuns  seated  round  its  simple  pine 
tables.  No  grounds  were  so  pleasant  as  the 
convent  garden,  with  the  scent  of  its  homely 
flowers  filling  the  air.  There  was  her  home; 
there  were  the  hearts  that  held  her.  She  filled 
162 


Under   the  Black  Pall 

the  vases  in  her  room  with  garden  roses  and 
mignonettes,  and  her  acquaintances  marvelled 
at  the  taste  which  preferred  these  to  the  sump 
tuous  flowers  she  might  have  had.  They  did 
not  realize  that  their  simple  perfume  was  as  if 
breathed  from  the  cloister  to  which  her  heart 
turned. 

Two  years  passed,  and  she  \vent  back  to  the 
convent.  It  was  understood  by  her  friends  that 
she  was  only  "on  probation."  She  was  not 
to  take  her  vows  until  there  had  been  time  to 
discover  that  her  choice  of  life  should  be  the 
cloister  and  not  the  world.  But  she  slipped  so 
readily  into  the  little  niche  awaiting  her  that 
there  was  neither  in  her  soul  nor  in  theirs  much 
question  as  to  her  ultimate  decision. 

As  "candidate"  and  "novice"  the  years 
went  swiftly.  Some  slight  relaxation  of  the 
rules  was  made  for  her.  She  was  permitted 
to  see  her  outside  friends  occasionally,  and 
keep  in  touch  with  their  lives  and  interests. 
In  the  perfect  conventual  system,  where  each 
unit  has  its  special  place,  she  had  been  as 
signed  to  the  teaching  ranks.  She  prepared 
herself  for  this  work  with  characteristic  thor 
oughness.  She  became  also  the  first  assist 
ant  of  Sister  Rodriguez,  the  convent  infirma- 
rian,  and  won  the  deep  respect  of  that  gentle 
nun. 

163 


Tales  of   the   Cloister 

When  she  took  the  white  veil  she  was  con 
scious  of  a  quiet  exhilaration.  She  had  made 
her  choice  and  was  content.  Her  eyes  testi 
fied  to  this  so  eloquently  that  the  other  nuns 
looked  at  her  with  a  soft  surprise  in  their  own. 
One  or  two  of  the  older  ones  wondered  vaguely 
whether  she  realized  all  that  she  was  renounc 
ing — the  wealth,  the  position  she  might  have 
had  in  the  great  world. 

As  a  white-veiled  novice  her  sphere  widened 
a  little.  She  taught  six  hours  a  day,  and  her 
pupils  accepted  her  instruction  cheerfully  and 
laid  the  usual  offerings  of  fruit  and  flowers  on 
her  desk.  They  also  deigned  to  obey  her  mild 
commands  and  to  make  a  reasonable  amount 
of  progress  in  their  studies,  which  added  to  her 
serene  content.  They  felt  no  deep  school-girl 
devotion  for  her,  such  as  they  were  wont  to  lav 
ish  on  their  teachers,  but  they  approved  of  her 
in  a  large  and  general  way,  and  spoke  kindly 
of  her  among  themselves. 

"One  can't  really  love  Sister  Patience,"  they 
said.  "She  does  not  want  it;  and  with  her 
manner  nobody  could.  But,  cold  as  she  is, 
she  is  very  just.  She  has  no  favorites,  and 
never  shows  a  bit  of  partiality;  we  like  that." 

She  adapted  herself  without  difficulty  to  the 
strict  convent  routine.  She  rose  at  five,  at 
tended  mass,  and  ate  her  breakfast;  at  half 
164 


SISTER    PATIENCE 


Under  the  Black   Pall 

past  eight  she  was  in  her  class-room.  She  had 
an  hour  for  her  noonday  meal,  which  was  pre 
ceded  by  prayers.  She  taught  until  four,  fin 
ished  the  work  of  the  school-day,  and  enjoyed 
an  hour  of  recreation  in  the  garden.  Even 
here  she  had  no  intimates,  but  took  her  even 
ing  rest  indifferently  with  this  or  that  Sister, 
as  it  chanced.  After  the  vesper  meal  she  at 
tended  prayers,  read,  and  talked  with  her  as 
sociates  in  the  large  assembly  room,  and  at 
nine  was  wrapped  in  the  deep  sleep  of  youth. 

Her  acquaintances  came  to  the  convent  more 
rarely  as  time  passed.  They  realized  that  her 
decision  was  irrevocable  before  the  taking  of 
the  black  veil  should  shut  her  off  from  the 
world  forever.  She,  too,  realized  this,  and 
thought  of  it  with  an  odd  sensation  which 
she  found  it  hard  to  analyze. 

Before  she  took  her  final  vows  she  was  sub 
jected  to  further  tests  of  discipline,  somewhat 
more  severe,  and  emerged  from  them  trium 
phantly.  After  these  there  was  a  "retreat," 
which  included  a  week  of  silence  and  fasting. 
Then  the  morning  of  the  final  ceremony  ar 
rived,  and  the  nearest  and  dearest  of  those  who 
had  known  and  loved  the  candidates  for  the 
black  veil  crowded  the  convent  chapel  to  see 
them  sever  the  last  tie  that  bound  them  to  the 
outside  world. 

165 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Fifty  were  to  do  this.  The  soft  notes  of  the 
organ  filled  the  chapel,  and  the  friends  of  the 
novices  turned  wet  eyes  towards  the  door 
through  which  they  were  to  enter.  The  heavy 
odor  of  many  flowers  was  in  the  air,  and  clouds 
of  incense  rose  to  the  blue  dome.  Outside,  wait 
ing  horses  pawed  noisily  in  the  usually  quiet 
street.  Inside,  choked  sobs  were  heard — the 
last  lament  of  mothers,  perhaps,  whose  children 
were  leaving  them  forever. 

The  little  door  to  the  left  of  the  sanctuary 
opened,  and  the  long  line  of  white-veiled  Sis 
ters  wound  its  way  into  the  chapel,  filling  the 
great  space  left  for  them  back  of  the  altar  rail 
ing.  Their  faces  were  pale,  and  the  days  and 
nights  of  fasting  had  left  deep  lines  on  their 
cheeks,  but  in  their  eyes  wras  a  light  that  made 
those  who  looked  at  it  hold  their  breath.  The 
friends  of  Sister  Patience  saw  her  in  the  row 
nearest  the  railing.  Her  back  wyas  towards 
them,  but  her  tall  figure  and  the  carriage  of 
her  head  were  not  to  be  mistaken.  When  she 
turned  at  a  point  in  the  ceremony  they  looked 
at  each  other.  Some  change,  some  singular 
change,  was  in  her  face.  But  what? 

The  solemn  ceremony  went  on.  Before  the 
altar  the  priest  and  his  assistants  chanted  the 
words  of  the  service.  High  up  in  the  organ- 
loft  the  choir  of  nuns  responded  softly.  The 
166 


Under  the  Black  Pall 

row  of  candidates  for  the  veil  rose  and  knelt, 
and  made  their  vows  of  poverty,  chastity,  and 
obedience,  while  those  who  loved  them,  kneel 
ing  in  the  pews  behind,  looked  on  with  aching 
hearts. 

Suddenly  a  bell  sounded,  followed  by  the 
soft,  muffled  fall  of  the  fifty  Sisters  who  were 
to  pronounce  their  vows,  prostrating  themselves 
on  the  chapel  floor.  Lay  Sisters  stretched  a 
great  black  pall  over  them,  covering  them  all. 
In  its  centre  was  a  white  cross,  and  this,  with 
the  outlined  figures  of  the  young  nuns  beneath 
the  sombre  cloth,  had  a  strange  suggestion  of 
a  group  of  graves.  Above  the  Sisters,  dead 
to  the  world  from  this  time  forth,  moaned  the 
cloister's  musical  farewell  to  the  mundane  joys 
of  life. 

Sister  Patience  lay  on  her  face  with  the  oth 
ers  and  waited  for  the  signal  to  rise.  At  first 
she  had  no  thought  of  self.  During  the  early 
part  of  the  service  she  had  been  impressed  by 
the  persistent  sobs  of  one  person,  a  woman, 
and  she  had  sympathized  vaguely  with  an 
other's  sorrow.  She  knew  it  was  not  for  her. 
Not  one  in  all  that  great  throng  mourned  for 
her.  But  in  her  excited  mental  state  this  weep 
ing,  heart-rending  enough  in  itself,  took  on  an 
emblematic  meaning.  Strange  fancies  filled 
her  mind.  She  wondered  if  that  was  the  weak 
167 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

voice  of  nature,  wailing  for  those  who  were  to 
adjure  its  weakness. 

The  chapel  was  full  of  the  stifled  sobs  of 
those  who  watched  the  scene.  The  novices 
were  dead — buried  beneath  that  sombre  pall, 
to  rise  inhabitants  of  another  world.  Sister 
Patience  closed  her  eyes,  and  the  thought 
came  again  and  again.  It  ate  into  her  brain. 
The  music  seemed  to  stop.  She  no  longer  felt 
the  warmth  of  the  bodies  lying  near  her.  Her 
face  rested  against  the  cold  chapel  floor,  and 
on  the  background  of  the  scene  through  which 
she  was  passing  memory  suddenly  brought  up 
her  past  life,  like  vivid  pictures  throwrn  on  a 
screen. 

She  saw  a  little  child,  in  a  black  frock,  tim 
idly  entering  a  dimly  lighted  room.  There  was 
something  long  and  black  there,  and  at  the 
head  and  foot  of  it  wax  candles  were  burning. 

The  child  stood  on  tip-toe  and  looked  at  a 
sleeping  face. 

"It  is  your  mother,  dear,"  a  voice  said. 
"Kiss  her  good-bye/'  The  child  kissed  her, 
and  for  years  memory  never  recalled  her  loss 
without  a  sense  of  the  irresponsive,  icy  lips  on 
which  her  own  had  rested. 

Then  the  child  stood  by  an  open  grave  into 
which  a  box  was  being  lowered.  It  was  a 
gray  winter  day,  and  falling  snowflakes  floated 
168 


Under  the  Black   Pall 

through  the  air.  The  child  looked  at  the  dull 
skies  above,  then  at  the  square  black  hole  be 
fore  her,  and  she  shivered  as  the  first  spade 
ful  of  earth  fell  on  the  box  below. 

The  scene  changed.  The  child,  a  little  older, 
lay  in  a  great  dormitory.  Her  bed  was  shut 
off,  like  the  others,  by  muslin  curtains,  but  she 
could  hear  whispering  voices  around  her  and 
stifled  laughs.  It  was  her  first  night  in  the 
convent;  she  knew  none  of  the  other  pupils. 
One  of  them  suddenly  stole  in  between  the  cur 
tains,  and  stood,  a  white-robed  figure,  behind 
the  bed. 

"You're  the  new  girl,"  she  said,  curiously, 
"and  Sister  says  you're  an  orphan.  It  must 
be  funny  to  be  an  orphan.  Mattie  Crane  says 
when  you  are,  you  have  nobody  to  love  you." 

The  child  buried  her  head  in  the  pillows  and 
did  not  answer. 

Now  she  was  a  young  girl,  at  her  guardian's 
house,  and  a  holiday  party  was  in  progress. 
One  of  the  sons  of  the  house  followed  her  to 
the  alcove  where  she  had  hidden  herself  to 
look  at  the  gayety  of  others  unheeded  in  her 
retreat. 

"Why  in  the  world,"  he  said,  with  the  pat 
ronizing  censure  of  fifteen,  "are  you  hiding 
away  here?  Papa  is  always  telling  us  to  be 
nice  to  you,  but  how  can  anybody  like  you 
169 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

when  you  act  like  this?  The  boys  are  afraid 
of  you,  and  the  girls  say  things  about  you. 
It  is  your  own  fault,  too." 

She  shrank  still  farther  into  her  corner  and 
refused  to  leave  it.  But  even  the  shy  pleas 
ure  of  looking  on  was  gone.  She  crept  away 
to  her  room. 

Another  recollection  burned  on  the  mental 
screen.  The  lonely  child  had  become  a  young 
lady,  after  painful  struggles  with  the  diffi 
dence  of  youth.  She  was  waiting  in  the  con 
servatory  to  be  claimed  by  her  partner  for  a 
waltz  already  begun  when  his  voice  reached 
her  ear. 

"I  must  leave  you,  Harry,"  he  said,  "and 
find  Miss  Everts.  I  have  this  dance  with  her 
— for  my  sins,  I  suppose.  Stand  by  me  after 
it,  for  I  shall  want  to  be  thawed  out.  Did  you 
ever  know  a  girl  that  was  such  a  lump  of  ice? 
She  makes  my  teeth  chatter." 

The  flippant  words  rang  in  her  ears  as  she 
stole  away.  What  was  it  about  her,  she  won 
dered,  that  repelled?  She  did  not  know. 

Linked  with  these  words  in  her  memory  were 
those  uttered,  several  years  afterwards,  in  the 
interval  between  graduation  and  her  novitiate, 
by  the  one  man  whose  proposal  of  marriage 
had  seemed  to  call  for  consideration.  She  had 
cared  for  Edward  Carrington ;  had  deeply  liked 
170 


Under  the  Black   Pall 

and  respected  him.  With  him,  at  least,  there 
was  neither  thought  nor  need  of  her  money. 
But  his  words  had  hurt. 

"  I  do  not  make  love  to  you  as  a  man  would 
with  the  usual  woman,"  he  had  said,  "for  I 
realize  that  it  would  count  but  little  with  a 
woman  like  yourself.  But  you  will  believe 
me  when  I  tell  you  how  proud  and  happy  I 
should  be  to  have  you  for  my  wife." 

She  wondered  why  he  had  thought  it  would 
"  count  but  little."  If  he  loved  her,  why  should 
he  not  say  so?  She  did  not  know,  nor  had  she 
ever  learned.  She  never  thought  of  him  with 
out  pain  at  the  memory  of  the  look  in  his  eyes 
as  he  went  away. 

The  lonely  life  went  on.  In  the  world,  even 
in  the  cloister,  there  seemed  to  be  drawn  around 
her  a  circle  which  no  one  passed.  The  men 
tal  screen  had  shown  the  lonely  child,  the  lone 
ly  girl,  the  lonely  woman.  The  arms  of  class 
mates  were  not  thrown  around  her;  the  rare 
caresses  of  the  nuns  were  not  given  to  her.  Ad 
mired,  deeply  respected,  she  was  never  loved. 

She  became  suddenly  conscious  of  what  and 
where  she  was — a  nun,  making  her  profession 
on  the  floor  of  the  convent  chapel,  under  the 
black  pall,  with  valedictory  strains  to  the  world 
sighing  above  her.  Why  had  her  mind,  which 
should  be  filled  with  uplifting  thoughts  on  so 
171 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

sacred  an  occasion,  taken  a  time  like  this  to 
wander?  She  called  herself  sternly  before  the 
tribunal  of  the  conscience  she  had  thought  so 
keenly  alive. 

It  was  the  sobbing  of  that  woman  which  had 
done  it.  Others  were  weeping,  too,  but  those 
sobs  were  from  the  heart — the  expression  of 
love  and  agony.  Some  one  among  her  com 
panions  was  loved  like  that!  She  herself  had 
never  known  love — a  mother's,  a  sister's.  No, 
nor  man's  for  the  chosen  woman.  So  she  had 
not  to  renounce  such  devotion  as  her  associ 
ates  were  sacrificing  in  the  last  act  of  their 
worldly  lives.  That  reflection  had  led  to  oth 
ers.  No  one  grieved  for  her.  What  she  had, 
she  gave.  Money,  position,  liberty — she  cheer 
fully  renounced  all  these.  Could  she  have  of 
fered,  had  she  possessed  it,  great,  unselfish, 
human  affection?  What  was  she  renouncing 
except  things  for  which  she  did  not  care?  Sim 
ply  turning  her  back  on  a  life  which  failed  to 
give  her  that  for  which  her  hungry  heart  had 
passionately  longed,  still  longed! 

She  felt  herself  trembling.  If  she  had  done 
only  this,  she  had  not  realized  it  before;  she 
herself  had  been  deceived.  Had  she  turned 
from  the  world  to  the  cloister  merely  because 
here  there  was  peace  and  relief  from  the  un 
rest  of  life  beyond  its  walls?  Those  outside 
172 


Under  the  Black  Pall 

who  knew  her,  and  those  inside  as  well,  had 
felt  that  she  was  renouncing  much.  They  had 
looked  almost  with  awe  upon  the  woman  whose 
religious  feeling  was  so  intense  that  she  must 
give  up  the  riches  that  her  life  held  for  the  ser 
vice  of  God. 

What  a  mockery — what  deceit !  Her  eyes  had 
been  opened — when  it  was  too  late!  Opened 
by  the  cry  of  a  human  heart  which  seemed 
the  outward  expression  of  her  own  long  years 
of  self-repression  and  bitter  loneliness. 

She  pressed  her  cheek  against  the  hard  floor 
and  moaned.  She  was  a  living  lie,  but  it  was 
too  late  now  to  confess  it.  She  must  remain  a 
lie  until  the  end — a  nun  mistaken  in  her  voca 
tion,  with  no  love  for  it  in  her  heart,  yet  re 
spected  by  her  associates  and  pupils  for  the 
qualities  she  had  not.  She  was  an  impostor! 
Nature  or  God,  or  both,  had  shown  it  to  her 
here,  in  the  sanctuary  she  was  profaning  by 
her  vows. 

Above  her  the  music  throbbed  tremulously. 
A  single  voice,  Sister  Cecilia's,  took  up  the  or 
gan's  refrain  and  carried  it  forward  with  a  sug 
gestion  of  triumph  in  the  rich  tones.  Her  face 
was  raised  to  the  arched  dome  of  the  chapel, 
and  in  her  pure  eyes  burned  the  light  of  relig 
ious  exaltation. 

Sister  Patience,  prone  under  the  black  pall, 
173 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

could  not  see  it,  but  she  knew  it  was  there. 
She  had  seen  it  often  when  Sister  Cecilia  sang. 
There  had  been  a  reflection  of  it  to-day  on  the 
faces  of  her  sister  novices.  They  were  happy. 
Their  breasts  had  swelled  over  their  entrance 
to  the  cloister — over  this  sure  refuge  in  His 
Heart. 

Sister  Patience  looked  down  the  long  gray 
avenue  of  future  years.  On  the  right  and  left 
lay  cold  duty,  untempered  by  the  spiritual  love 
which  makes  such  duty  sweet,  and  at  its  end 
the  convent  cemetery,  with  rows  of  board- 
marked  graves.  After  that,  wrhat?  What  for 
the  lie — the  impostor? 

The  young  nun's  soul  contracted  at  the  lone 
liness  and  heart-hunger  of  the  years  gone  by 
and  of  the  years  to  come.  In  her  heart  rose 
the  most  spontaneous  prayer  of  her  whole  life. 

"God  forgive  me/'  she  whispered.  "God — 
forgive  me !  And  let  me  give  You  what  I  have. " 

"George,"  said  the  Honorable  Edward  Car- 
rington,  with  patient  calmness,  "do  you  mind 
letting  up  a  little  on  those  billiard-balls?  This 
knocking  them  around  is  getting  on  my  nerves." 

His  younger  brother  brought  his  cue  to  rest 
and  faced  about. 

"  Your  nerves  are  getting  pretty  troublesome 
of  late,"  he  said,  rather  irritably.  "  You  haven't 
174 


Under  the  Black   Pall 

been  yourself  for  days.  I've  not  seen  you 
like  this  since  we  were  here  before,  six  years 
ago/' 

As  the  other  made  no  reply,  he  came  over  and 
put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Say,  old  chap,"  he  asked,  impulsively, 
"what's  up?  Why  have  we  come  to  America 
again?" 

The  older  man  looked  at  the  boyish  face  seri 
ously. 

"  When  you  were  a  little  beggar,  Georgie,"  he 
said,  "  and  had  a  tooth  that  ached,  when  it  be 
gan  you  used  to  bite  on  it  to  make  it  worse. 
Do  you  remember?  Well,  that's  what  I've  been 
doing." 

He  regarded  gravely  the  puzzled  eyes  that 
looked  into  his.  Then  he  went  on,  incisively  : 

"In  other  words,  my  boy,  I  heard  that  the 
only  woman  in  the  world  for  me  was  to  bury 
herself  alive  to-day.  I  came  to  America,  and 
I  have  seen  her  do  it." 

His  look  had  not  veered  from  his  brother's 
eyes. 

"I  thought  you'd  got  over  that,  years  ago," 
said  the  boy,  with  awkward  sympathy,  turn 
ing  his  own  gaze  away. 

"I  hope  when  you're  older  you  won't  have 
reason  to  feel  that  the  Carringtons  don't  get 
over  such  things,"  his  brother  replied,  slowly. 
175 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Then  he  pulled  himself  together  and  grasped 
the  boy's  hand  with  a  good  English  grip. 

"It  hurt,  George/'  he  said,  simply. 

He  let  the  hand  fall,  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  added,  casually,  "  It's  time  we  went  to  din 
ner,  isn't  it?" 


Between  Darkness  and  Dawn 


Between  Darkness  and  Dawn 


HE  graduation  exercises  were  in 
progress.  Elizabeth  Van  Nest  heard 
the  opening  notes  of  the  overture 
to  "  Die  Zauberflote  "  as  she  walked 
down  the  long  corridor  towards  Commence 
ment  Hall.  Many  of  her  friends  and  class 
mates  were  members  of  the  convent  orchestra, 
and  they  had  practised  the  music  of  the  grad 
uation  programme  until  even  Mozart's  mel 
odies  beat  drearily  against  the  ear.  Elizabeth 
had  laughed  with  them  over  the  seemingly  end 
less  repetitions,  but  now  the  music  took  on  a 
sudden  and  unexpected  charm.  Her  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  the  hand  that  held  her  essay 
trembled  a  little.  The  heavy  perfume  of  the 
flowers  banked  against  the  stage  floated  out  to 
her.  In  half  an  hour  she  would  be  standing 
there  delivering  the  valedictory. 

She  wondered   vaguely   if    she    could    do  it 
— if,  with   this    sickening   sense   of   loneliness 
and  loss  strong  in  her,  she  could  say  to  that 
179 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

waiting  audience  the  farewell  words  that  had 
come  so  easily  to  her  tongue  during  the  re 
hearsals  of  the  past  week.  She  must  do  it, 
and  do  it  wrell.  It  was  the  closing  act  of  her 
school  life,  and  she  ought  to  leave  as  pleasant 
a  memory  behind  her  as  she  took  away.  In 
her  heart  she  knew  she  would.  She  usually 
did  things  well  —  this  calm,  self-contained 
pupil  of  whom  the  nuns  expected  so  much. 
Then,  too,  she  reflected,  Sister  Estelle  would 
be  in  the  wings  with  her,  and  Sister  Estelle 
would  help  her  if  she  faltered.  Dear  Sister 
Estelle,  who  had  never  failed  her  from  the  day 
she  had  been  brought  to  the  convent,  a  little 
child,  and  given  to  the  sweet-faced  nun  as  a 
special  charge. 

To-day  they  were  to  part,  she  and  this  wom 
an  who  had  been  the  strongest  element  in 
her  life  for  twelve  years — guide,  philosopher, 
teacher,  sister,  mother,  all  in  one.  After  to 
day  she  could  call  at  the  convent  at  proper 
intervals  and  talk  to  Sister  Estelle — perhaps 
through  the  wire  grating  in  the  little  reception- 
room.  Her  heart  contracted  at  the  thought. 
She  had  never  before  rebelled  against  a  rule 
of  the  great  institution,  but  this  seemed  very 
hard.  The  proper  intervals  would  be  far  be 
tween,  she  reflected,  with  some  bitterness.  She 
was  to  go  to  Chicago  the  next  day  to  begin  the 
1 80 


Between   Darkness  and  Dawn 

study  of  medicine.  She  had  chosen  her  pro 
fession,  and  Sister  Estelle  had  approved  the 
choice,  which  was  enough.  The  thinly  veiled 
disapprobation  of  her  guardian  and  other  friends 
counted  for  little  against  that. 

She  had  reached  the  entrance  to  Commence 
ment  Hall,  but  she  passed  it,  and,  after  a  pre 
liminary  tap,  entered  a  room  a  few  doors  be 
yond.  It  was  empty  except  for  a  Sister,  in  her 
severe  black  garb,  standing  at  the  window  over 
looking  the  convent  garden.  The  nun  did  not 
turn.  She  slipped  her  arm  around  the  girdled 
waist  and  laid  her  cheek  against  the  stiff  white 
linen  that  covered  her  friend's  bosom.  The  lit 
tle  act  meant  much,  for  caresses  were  rare  be 
tween  these  two,  who  understood  each  other  so 
well  without  them. 

The  young  girl  looked  up  into  the  nun's 
eyes  and  wondered  whether  it  was  fancy  or 
if  the  lids  were  a  trifle  reddened.  She  dared 
not  think  so,  for  that  might  mean  the  loss  of 
her  own  self-control.  Sister  Estelle  did  not  ap 
prove  of  tears  even  when  shed  in  such  circum 
stances  as  these  and  by  the  pupil  of  her  heart. 

"How  can  I  get  up  there  and  read  to 
them/'  Elizabeth  asked,  "with  our  parting 
before  me?  You  will  help  me,  I  know;  tell 
me  that  I  must  do  it,  and  that  I  shall  do  it  well. " 

The  nun  smiled  serenely.  "Assuredly  you 
181  " 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

will  do  it  well,  my  dear,"  she  said,  almost 
lightly.  "  We  cannot  have  you  fail  at  this 
of  all  times.  You  will  do  justice  to  yourself 
and  to  us."  She  hesitated  a  little.  "I  will 
be  near  you,"  she  added,  simply. 

The  repetition  of  the  familiar  assurance  that 
had  run  like  a  golden  thread  throughout  the 
years  silenced  them  both.  By  a  common  im 
pulse  they  turned  unseeing  eyes  upon  the  smil 
ing  garden  below,  while  memories  rose  before 
them. 

"I  will  be  near  you,"  Sister  Estelle  had  said 
to  the  frightened  little  girl  when  darkness  fell 
on  the  first  night  in  the  convent  walls.  "  I  will 
be  near  you,"  she  had  repeated  at  the  crisis  of 
the  long  illness  several  years  later.  Elizabeth 
recalled  now  those  nights  of  delirium  in  which 
the  silent,  black-robed  figure  had  remained  at 
her  bedside  to  do  battle,  the  child  thought,  with 
the  phantoms  and  goblins  that  filled  the  room. 
The  gentle  Sister  had  indeed  been  with  her  in 
all  the  marked  episodes  of  her  school-girl  life; 
she  was  with  her  now  in  this  last  scene.  They 
turned  and  read  the  same  thought  in  each 
other's  eyes.  The  nun  took  her  pupil  in  her 
arms  and  held  her  there. 

"No,  dear  child,  it  is  not  for  the  last  time," 
she  said,  with  quiet  confidence.  "I  have  been 
with  you  until  now — I  shall  be  with  you  in 
182 


Between  Darkness  and  Dawn 

thought  and  spirit  and  heart  in  the  years  to 
come.  There  is  nothing  I  can  do  for  you  in 
the  big  world  outside,  but  I  can  think  of  you 
and  pray  for  you  here  every  day.  In  the  times 
you  need  me  you  must  come  to  me.  They  will 
be  many  at  first,  for  the  world  will  have  un 
pleasant  surprises  for  you,  and  you  will  turn 
to  me,  I  know — my  little  one,  my  little  girl." 

She  kissed  the  wet  cheek  upturned  to  her, 
and  drew  her  pupil  gently  towards  the  door. 
A  ripple  of  applause  rolled  towards  them  from 
the  hall.  The  orchestra  had  just  finished  its 
selection.  They  walked  quickly  down  a  side 
corridor  which  led  to  the  stage  wings.  The 
fresh  young  voices  of  the  convent  quartette  were 
raised  in  the  song  that  preceded  the  valedic 
tory.  Elizabeth  Van  Nest  smoothed  her  gloves, 
shook  out  her  white  plumage,  and  looked  up 
into  her  friend's  face  with  the  smile  and  assur 
ance  of  her  childhood  days. 

"I  will  do  my  very  bestest  best,"  she  said, 
tenderly.  "  Could  I  do  anything  else,  with  you 
looking  on?" 

Miss  Van  Nest's  fellow-students  at  the  medi 
cal  college  did  her  the  honor  to  speculate  about 
her  with  much  interest.  She  was  head  and 
shoulders  above  them  in  her  work;  that  they 
all  felt  and  most  of  them  admitted.  It  would 
183 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

have  been  difficult  to  do  otherwise,  with  the 
faculty  treating  her  as  a  genius  given  into  their 
developing  care.  Miss  Van  Nest  had  chosen 
surgery  as  her  life-work,  and  Dr.  Lincoln,  the 
famous  consulting  surgeon  of  the  clinic  at 
tached  to  the  college,  made  no  secret  of  the  fact 
that  he  regarded  her  as  a  phenomenon.  He  in 
variably  selected  her  as  one  of  his  assistants 
in  operations,  and  made  curt,  illuminative  com 
ments  to  her  as  the  work  progressed.  He  had 
even  been  heard  to  warn  her  not  to  study  too 
hard — a  caution  rarely  given  by  the  great  doc 
tor,  who  held  the  days  all  too  short  for  the 
things  to  be  done  in  them.  Notwithstanding 
this  warning,  she  continued  to  work  eighteen 
hours  of  the  twenty-four.  There  were  no  dis 
tractions,  for  she  had  few  acquaintances  and 
no  intimates.  Several  times  a  year  she  left 
the  city  for  a  few  days,  and  it  became  known 
in  some  mysterious  way  that  she  spent  them 
in  a  distant  convent  with  a  former  teacher  to 
whom  she  was  devoted,  and  who  continued  to 
exercise  great  influence  over  her.  It  was  whis 
pered  that  she  had  been  led  to  adopt  surgery 
as  a  profession  by  the  advice  of  this  cloister 
friend.  Dr.  Lincoln  sniffed  openly  when  the 
surmise  came  to  his  ears. 

"  She  will  be  a  surgeon  because  she  was  born 
one/'  he  said.    "  She  has  the  brain,  nerves,  and 
184 


Between  Darkness  and   Dawn 

hands  for  it."  He  loaded  her  with  work,  which 
she  cheerfully  accepted,  and  boasted  to  his  col 
leagues  about  her,  predicting  that  she  would 
do  great  things. 

She  was  graduated  with  honors  which  would 
have  turned  the  head  of  one  not  so  well  poised. 
She  did  hospital  work  in  Chicago  for  two  years, 
and  then  went  abroad  for  four  more  of  sup 
plementary  training  among  the  horrors  of 
hospitals  in  great  European  cities.  When  she 
returned  to  her  own  country  and  established 
herself  in  New  York,  her  fame  had  preceded 
her.  Dr.  Elizabeth  Van  Nest  promptly  took  a 
place  in  the  front  rank  of  her  profession,  and 
enhanced  the  reputation  already  acquired  by 
a  series  of  brilliant  operations.  One  of  these 
was  performed  in  Chicago,  and  while  the  news 
papers  were  still  full  of  the  marvel  of  it,  for  the 
case  was  an  unusual  one  and  the  patient  a 
woman  of  national  fame,  the  surgeon  slipped 
away,  leaving  no  address  except  in  the  patient's 
home. 

"The  convent  again,  I  suppose,"  Dr.  Lincoln 
reflected,  dryly.  "Hasn't  she  got  over  that 
habit  yet?  It  is  twelve  years  since  she  was 
graduated."  Then  his  stern  eyes  softened. 
"If  it's  a  weakness,"  he  added,  "it  is  her  only 
one,  and  I  wish  she  had  more.  She  ought  to 
have  some  strong  human  interest  in  her  life." 
185 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Dr.  Lincoln  was  fond  as  well  as  proud  of  his 
brilliant  pupil. 

Dr.  Van  Nest's  heart  felt  no  such  need  as 
she  rang  the  convent  bell  on  the  afternoon  of 
her  arrival  in  the  city  of  her  girlhood.  She 
looked  up  lovingly  at  the  cold,  gray  walls,  and 
a  film  came  over  the  eyes  usually  keen  and 
steady  rather  than  soft.  The  familiar  little 
portress  of  years  ago  opened  the  door,  and  her 
shy  exclamation  of  recognition  and  delight  was 
music  to  the  doctor's  ears. 

"I  had  no  time  to  write  to  Reverend  Moth 
er,"  she  explained  as  she  entered  the  little  re 
ception-room.  "  I  came  West  unexpectedly,  and 
did  not  know  until  last  night  that  I  would  be 
able  to  leave  Chicago  to-day.  But  surely  she 
will  permit  me  to  see  Sister  Estelle  without  de 
lay.  Please  tell  her  that  I  am  here,  Sister,  and 
that  I  am — heart-hungry." 

The  portress  hesitated.  "I  am  sure  you 
may  see  her,  Miss  Van  Nest — Doctor  Van 
Nest,  I  mean.  You  see,  we  know  all  about 
you,  even  here,  and  we  rejoice  in  your  success. 
But  you  must  be  prepared  for  some  change 
in  Sister  Estelle.  She  —  she  has  not  been 
well." 

Dr.  Van  Nest  grew  a  little  indignant.  "  Why 
was  I  not  informed?"  she  asked,  quickly.  The 
portress  looked  at  her  with  a  smile  which  dep- 
186 


Between  Darkness  and  Dawn 

recated  the  unconsciously  assumed  professional 
manner. 

"  It  was  Sister  Estelle's  own  request  that  you 
should  not  know,"  she  said,  softly.  "You 
were  abroad,  and  she  feared  your  anxiety,  if 
you  knew  her  condition,  might  interfere  with 
your  work.  She  believed  there  was  no  cause 
for  anxiety.  She  knew  you  would  come  to 
see  her  as  soon  after  your  return  to  America 
as  you  could." 

Dr.  Van  Nest  became  again  the  child  of  the 
convent.  "Let  me  see  her,"  she  begged.  "Let 
me  see  her  at  once — not  behind  the  grating, 
but  here,  or  in  the  garden,  by  ourselves.  Please 
ask  Reverend  Mother." 

The  little  portress  departed,  leaving  the  im 
patient  visitor  alone.  Dr.  Van  Nest  looked 
around  her  with  a  reminiscent  smile.  It  was 
years  since  she  had  been  in  this  particular 
wing  of  the  great  building,  but  nothing  was 
changed.  The  same  high  polish  shone  on 
the  waxed  floor;  the  same  chairs  stood  at  pre 
cisely  the  same  angles  in  the  same  corners; 
the  same  religious  pictures  hung  on  the  walls; 
the  same  wax  flowers  stood  on  the  same  small 
table.  There  was  the  desk  which  the  child 
Elizabeth  Van  Nest  used  to  approach  shaking 
in  her  little  shoes,  to  be  reprimanded  for  some 
childish  mistake  by  the  nun  who  sat  there. 
187 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Here  at  last  there  was  a  change.  The  nun 
was  there  no  more.  Dr.  Van  Nest  recalled  a 
line  in  one  of  Sister  Estelle's  letters,  sent  to  her 
in  Paris, 

"  Our  dear  Sister  Raymond  has  found  her  reward." 

It  seemed  a  long  time  that  she  waited.  When 
at  last  a  step  came  along  the  hall,  she  rose  and 
went  forward  in  her  impatience.  It  was  the 
portress,  alone,  but  she  anticipated  the  words 
on  the  other's  lips. 

"I  am  to  take  you  to  the  west  parlor,"  she 
said.  "Sister  Estelle  is  not  wTell  enough  to 
come  to  you  here.  She  will  see  you  there 
alone." 

Dr.  Van  Nest  followed  her  guide  without 
a  word.  She  kept  close  beside  her  as  they 
walked  through  the  halls,  but  the  nooks  and 
corridors  where  she  had  played  as  a  child  had 
now  no  memories  for  her.  The  gentle  por 
tress  prattled  on  artlessly,  but  the  visitor  did 
not  hear  her  words.  Her  mind  was  concen 
trated  on  the  dread  of  what  was  to  come.  She 
paced  the  west  parlor  in  a  fever  of  foreboding. 
Then  came  a  light  step,  slow  and  hesitating, 
but  unmistakably  the  step  she  awaited,  and 
Sister  Estelle  stood  in  the  doorwray,  supported 
by  the  arm  of  Sister  Rodriguez,  the  convent 
infirmarian.  The  doctor  went  forward  with- 
188 


Between   Darkness  and   Dawn 

out  a  word,  took  the  slender,  emaciated  fig 
ure  in  her  strong  arms,  and  carried  it  to  a  re- 
clining-chair.  It  was  a  pathetically  light  bur 
den,  though  Sister  Rodriguez  looked  with  deep 
respect  at  the  superbly  formed  woman  who 
bore  it,  and  who  had  won  so  enviable  a  posi 
tion  in  the  big  world  that  the  knowledge  of  it 
had  penetrated  even  to  the  convent  pharmacy. 
She  went  away  and  left  them  together,  speech 
less,  the  visitor's  dark  head  buried  in  Sister 
Estelle's  lap. 

"  Oh,  why — why  did  you  not  tell  me?"  she 
cried  at  last.  The  hand  that  lay  on  her  lap 
trembled  slightly. 

"Why  should  I,  dear?"  the  nun  asked. 
"You  could  have  done  nothing  —  even  you 
could  have  done  nothing  for  me."  There 
was  a  caress  as  well  as  a  compliment  in  the 
words.  "Weak  lungs  are  not  in  your  line 
of  work.  And  I  was  so  proud  of  you,  so  anx 
ious  for  you  to  be  the  successful  woman  you 
are.  It  is  a  great  gift  you  have,  my  dear 
child  —  this  ability  to  relieve  and  save.  I 
could  not  distract  you  in  your  work,  as  you 
would  have  been  distracted  if  you  had  known. 
And  now  I  am  happy,  for  I  have  been  per 
mitted  to  remain  until  you  came,  and  to  see 
you  again." 

Dr.  Van  Nest  kissed  the  thin  hands  with- 
189 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

out  speaking.  Rebellion  was  in  her  heart — 
rebellion  against  her  own  helplessness  in  the 
face  of  this  disaster.  The  hollow  voice,  the 
bright  spots  in  the  cheeks,  the  brilliant  eyes 
that  shone  like  polished  agate  under  the  band 
of  linen  across  the  brow — all  these  things  tes 
tified  eloquently  that  Sister  Estelle's  "  reward  " 
was  soon  to  come. 

"  Can  you  stay  here  with  me  until  I  go?" 
the  nun  asked,  almost  diffidently.  "They 
have  told  me" — she  hesitated — "that  it  will 
be  but  a  short  time.  Reverend  Mother  has 
kindly  given  her  permission  for  you  to  stay 
if  your  duties  will  permit." 

"I  will  not  leave  you  for  a  moment,"  said 
the  other  woman.  She  added,  with  an  uncon 
trollable  sob :  "  What  shall  I  do,  what  can  I  do, 
without  you?  All  my  work  has  been  for  you 
- — to  please  you.  Your  letters  and  your  love 
have  made  me  what  I  am.  In  every  crisis  of 
my  life  you  have  been  with  me;  I  could  not 
have  met  them  without  you.  I  have  come  to 
you  always,  and  you  have  never  failed  me. 
How  can  I  live  on  alone?" 

The  sick  woman  looked  at  her  with  wet  eyes. 
"Listen  to  me,  my  little  girl,"  she  said.  "This 
may  not  be  so  great  a  separation  as  you  think. 
The  memory  of  me  will  always  be  with  you, 
and  you  know  whether  I  shall  forget  you  when 
190 


Between  Darkness  and  Dawn 

I  am  with  God.  You  know  how  I  would  have 
you  act.  And  if  you  have  some  time  a  pecul 
iar,  pressing  need  of  me,  perhaps  I  may  be 
permitted  to  come  to  you.  Our  Lord  may 
grant  us  this.  Why  not?  When  He  gave 
you  to  me  for  all  these  years  as  the  child  of 
my  heart."  She  bent  forward  and  kissed  the 
bowed  head  in  her  lap.  "  Remember,"  she 
said,  softly.  "  I  promise.  If  you  need  me,  and 
if  it  is  permitted  me,  I  will  come  to  you." 

Dr.  Van  Nest,  aged  thirty-eight,  stood  at  the 
window  of  her  New  York  office  and  looked  out 
at  the  falling  snow.  It  was  Christmas  Day, 
but  the  season  had  little  holiday  significance 
for  the  famous  surgeon.  She  had  worked  as 
usual,  driving  in  her  carriage  from  hospital 
to  private  house,  and  carrying  from  place  to 
place  with  her  the  constant  thought  of  a  white 
face  and  a  pair  of  pained,  appealing  eyes. 

When  she  entered  her  house  late  in  the  even 
ing  the  smiling  maid  had  pointed  to  a  varied 
assortment  of  packages,  which  had  not  yet  been 
opened.  Large  boxes,  with  the  names  of  promi 
nent  florists  on  their  covers,  breathed  sweetly  of 
the  love  of  friends.  Telegrams  and  notes  were 
piled  high  on  her  desk.  She  unwrapped  several 
of  the  packages,  and  her  lips  set  a  little  grimly 
over  the  cards  that  accompanied  them. 
191 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

"From  your  grateful  patient/'  she  read. 
"With  the  deepest  appreciation  of  all  your 
kindness,"  ran  another.  "To  the  dear  doctor 
to  whom  I  owe  my  merry  Christmas/'  was  the 
inscription  of  a  third.  She  dropped  them  with 
a  sigh,  looked  out  of  the  window,  and  then, 
with  her  characteristic  walk,  began  pacing  up 
and  down  the  long  room,  her  hands  clasped 
behind  her  and  her  forehead  puckered  with 
thought  and  anxiety. 

"The  doctor's  worried  over  some  case,"  the 
maid  reported  to  the  cook.  "  I  can  always  tell 
when  she's  anxious." 

Dr.  Van  Nest's  footsteps  on  the  polished  floor 
echoed  rather  inharmoniously  in  the  large 
room.  On  the  hearth  a  bright  fire  sparkled, 
but  its  cheery  invitation  did  not  lure  her  from 
her  restless  tramp.  Before  her  there  were  al 
ways  the  same  pale  face  and  dark  eyes  pa 
thetically  full  of  love  and  trust.  The  doctor 
uttered  a  sigh  that  was  almost  a  groan  as  she 
at  last  sank  into  a  chair  before  the  grate  and 
looked  into  the  glowing  coals.  They  formed 
at  once  into  the  outlines  of  the  haunting  face. 

"I  am  going  to  lose  that  case,"  she  thought, 
forebodingly.  "  And  I'm  going  to  have  a  ner 
vous  collapse,  too,"  she  continued,  with  grim 
conviction.  "I  never  felt  like  this  before.  I 
have  no  confidence  in  myself.  I  am  as  ner- 
192 


Between   Darkness  and  Dawn 

vous  as  an  hysterical  school-girl.  And  how 
she  trusts  me!" 

She  sat  brooding  dully  for  a  moment. 

"  I  can't  feel  as  I  want  to  about  her  case.  Is 
there  something  I  don't  foresee?"  she  went  on, 
putting  the  situation  before  herself  with  rigid 
truthfulness.  "Lincoln  agrees  with  me.  So 
does  Dr.  Vandeveer.  Still,  I  cannot  help  feel 
ing  there  is  something  under  it  all  that  none 
of  us  grasps.  There  is  this  sense  of  some  un 
appreciated  element  in  the  case  which  always 
comes  up  whenever  I  think  of  it.  And  I — am 
to  operate  on  her  to-morrow.  She  trusts  me  as 
if  I  were  infallible!" 

She  threw  back  her  head  with  an  air  of  re 
bellious  hopelessness.  Before  her  came  the 
picture  of  the  patient  as  she  had  looked  dur 
ing  the  preliminary  examination  of  the  day 
before.  She  had  come  out  of  the  ether  repeat 
ing  a  portion  of  the  Apostles'  Creed. 

"I  believe  in  God,  the  Father  Almighty," 
she  had  murmured;  then,  suddenly,  "And 
I  believe  in  Dr.  Van  Nest,  too;  oh,  I  do  be 
lieve  in  her.  I  believe  in  Elizabeth." 

The  consulting  surgeons  had  smiled  irre 
sistibly,  the  little  incident  revealed  so  fully 
the  discussion  that  must  have  been  waged  in 
the  patient's  home.  Her  friends  had  urged  a 
man  surgeon  for  the  operation.  But  Dr.  Van 
N  193 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Nest  had  been  conscious  of  an  unfamiliar  lump 
in  her  throat.  For  the  first  time  in  her  pro 
fessional  experience  she  was  not  feeling  sure 
of  herself.  She  wondered  whether  the  patient 
had  felt  it,  and  whether  these  lynx-eyed  male 
colleagues  had  any  suspicion  of  it.  Her  strong 
white  hands  were  as  steady  and  as  deft  as  ever, 
but  she  felt  her  heart  sink.  Was  she  to  fail 
now,  for  the  first  time,  and  on  this  friend  of  her 
heart — this  friend  who  had  come,  it  seemed  to 
her,  to  fill  the  place  of  Sister  Estelle,  dead  these 
eight  years  ?  The  sufferer  would  permit  no  one 
but  her  to  operate.  This  life,  so  dear  to  her 
and  to  others,  lay  in  her  hands — and  for  the 
first  time  in  her  experience  she  shrank  from 
the  responsibility.  She  felt  suddenly  cold,  and 
held  her  hand  to  the  blaze.  It  shook  visibly. 
Dr.  Van  Nest  sprang  to  her  feet  with  an  ex 
clamation  of  anger. 

"Fool  that  I  am,"  she  said.  "I  am  letting 
myself  go  to  pieces.  I  shall  be  in  fine  con 
dition  for  to-morrow's  work/'  Her  eyes  filled 
with  sudden,  rare  tears.  "She  is  the  only 
being  I  love,"  she  breathed,  "and  I  am  going 
to  lose  her.  First,  Sister  Estelle.  And  now 
she  must  go — and  under  my  hands  at  that." 

Her  thoughts  flew  to  the  grave  in  the  con 
vent  cemetery  out  West,  marked  by  a  simple 
pine  board  darkened  by  the  storms  of  many 
194 


Between   Darkness  and  Dawn 

seasons.  A  childlike  longing  for  the  familiar 
touch  and  voice,  so  dear  in  the  years  gone  by, 
overwhelmed  her.  She  felt  like  the  panic- 
stricken  little  girl  of  thirty  years  ago — the 
child  who  had  been  calmed  and  cheered  by  a 
white  hand  and  a  soft,  reassuring  voice. 

"'I  will  be  near  you,  dear,'"  repeated  the 
doctor,  sadly.  "  If  she  could  be  near  me  to 
day,  she  would  pull  me  out  of  this  condition 
I'm  allowing  myself  to  get  into.  Oh,  for  a 
moment  with  her  here  and  now!" 

She  looked  up  almost  expectantly,  as  if  she 
had  uttered  the  words  of  an  incantation. 
The  little  clock  ticked  steadily  on  the  mantel, 
the  fire  crackled  on  the  hearth,  and  the  wind 
of  December  sang  its  elfish  song  at  the  win 
dows.  That  was  all. 

She  resolutely  pulled  herself  together  and 
rang  the  bell.  Night  had  fallen,  and  lights 
were  flashing  from  the  windows  of  the  neigh 
boring  houses. 

"  Bring  me  something  to  eat,  and  then  I  am 
going  to  bed,"  she  said,  when  the  maid  ap 
peared.  "I  must  have  a  good  night's  sleep 
— if  I  can." 

She  seemed  to  have  slept  for  a  very  short 
time,  when  she  awoke  with  every  sense  alert. 
It  was  yet  night,  but  through  the  large  win- 
195 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

dows  hygienically  open  at  the  top  she  could  see 
the  pearl-gray  shadows  that  preceded  dawn. 
On  the  hearth  the  fire  burned  low,  but  each 
object  in  the  room  was  distinct  in  the  dim 
light.  The  clock  ticked  cheerily.  She  could 
not  quite  distinguish  its  face  across  the  room, 
but  as  she  strained  her  eyes  in  the  'effort  it 
struck  five. 

It  was  not  usual  for  her  to  wake  at  this  hour, 
but  she  experienced  no  surprise  or  annoyance. 
Instead,  she  was  conscious  of  a  vague  but  trust 
ful  responsiveness.  She  let  her  eyes  roam  slow 
ly  around  the  room,  and  smiled  to  herself.  Fear 
and  unrest  had  left  her;  she  felt  composed, 
wholly  at  peace.  She  threw  back  the  cover 
ing  and  sat  up.  As  she  did  so  a  soft  hand 
touched  her  own.  It  was  years  since  she  had 
felt  it,  but  she  recognized  it  at  once,  and  with 
out  the  slightest  shock  or  fear  her  mind  adapt 
ed  itself  to  the  experience.  She  turned  quickly 
and  saw  Sister  Estelle  standing  at  the  side  of 
the  bed.  She  was  a  little  in  shadow,  but  her 
tall  figure  in  the  sombre  habit  of  her  order 
was  clearly  defined,  and  under  the  white  band 
across  her  brow  her  dark  eyes  shone  lumi 
nously.  The  smile  with  which  she  met  the  doc 
tor's  eyes  was  the  old  sweet  smile  of  long  ago — 
loving,  reassuring,  and  touched  now  with  a  peace 
ful  gratitude  which  her  first  words  explained. 
196 


Between  Darkness  and  Dawn 

"You  are  glad  to  see  me,"  she  said,  quietly 
— "  and  you  are  not  afraid." 

The  doctor  put  the  hand  to  her  lips  and  held 
it  there.  It  was  firm  and  cool,  and  there  was 
the  same  velvety  texture  which  the  school-girl 
of  twenty  years  ago  had  secretly  admired.  She 
echoed  the  other's  words. 

"  Afraid,  Sister?"  she  said.  "  Of  you?  Never 
in  the  world.  My  heart  is  too  full  of  love  and 
gratitude. " 

She  bent  nearer  to  the  other  as  she  spoke, 
but  as  she  did  so  the  nun's  figure  drew  slight 
ly  away.  The  movement  did  not  hurt  her. 
She  understood,  and  there  could  be  no  thought 
of  disappointment  in  the  presence  of  that  stead 
fast,  loving  smile.  She  sank  back  on  the  pil 
low  with  a  sigh  of  perfect  content  and  happi 
ness. 

"You  have  come,"  she  murmured.  "You 
said  you  would,  and  I  have  looked  for  you 
all  these  years  since  you  left  me." 

"  You  did  not  need  me  before.  You  thought 
you  did  at  times,"  added  the  nun,  "but  you 
did  not.  Could  you  think  that  I  would  fail 
when  the  hour  came?  You  need  me  now,  and 
I  am  here." 

"Tell  me  of  yourself,"  begged  the  doctor. 

The  Sister  shook  her  head.  "That  I  am 
here,  through  God's  mercy,  tells  you  that  all 
197 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

is  well  with  me.  I  have  come  to  tell  you  what 
you  need  to  know — things  that  will  help  you," 
she  said.  "You  have  reached  a  crisis  in  your 
career.  To-morrow  will  be  the  turning-point. 
If  you  had  failed  in  the  case  of  your  friend, 
you  would  have  turned  morbid  and  introspec 
tive;  you  would  have  lost  confidence  in  your 
self.  You  will  not  fail.  I  have  come  to  tell 
you  so.  The  case  is  as  you  have  diagnosed 
it,  with  the  one  additional  element  which  you 
have  dimly  felt  throughout,  but  could  not  place. 
You  had  a  similar  case  in  Paris — Madame  Ber- 
trand's.  You  made  notes  of  it  at  the  time. 
They  are  in  the  lowest  left  -  hand  drawer  of 
your  desk,  hidden  under  old  newspapers  and 
clippings.  They  will  give  you  the  key  to  the 
situation." 

Dr.  Van  Nest  drew  a  long  breath.  "I  have 
it  now,"  she  cried.  "This  is  almost  the  same 
case.  They  are  so  rare,  it  is  odd  that  I  should 
have  two  of  them  in  my  experience,  but  not 
as  strange  as  that  the  recollection  of  the  other 
should  not  have  come  to  my  tormented  mind. 
I  remember  the  other  one  perfectly." 

The  scientific  interest  of  the  discovery  ob 
scured  for  a  moment  the  full  realization  of  the 
strange  experience  through  which  she  was  pass 
ing.  Sister  Estelle  resumed : 

"The  operation  will  be  a  success,"  she  said. 
198 


"'YOU    ARE    GLAD   TO   SEE    ME?'" 


Between   Darkness  and   Dawn 

"  Your  friend  will  regain  her  health.  So  sleep, 
dear  child,  and  wake  calm  and  strong  for  the 
work  you  have  to  do." 

Dr.  Van  Nest  threw  out  imploring  hands. 
"Do  not  leave  me  yet,"  she  begged.  "How 
shall  I  know  in  the  morning  that  it  was  not 
all  a  dream?  How  can  I  tell  then  that  you 
truly  came  to  me  as  you  promised,  and  that 
it  was  not  a  fantasy  of  the  night?" 

Sister  Estelle  smiled.  "To-morrow  you  will 
find  your  note-book.  That  will  supply  what 
you  need.  But  that  you  may  know  the  sweet 
ness  of  our  Lord  in  letting  me  come  as  I  prom 
ised,  you  shall  have  an  unmistakable  sign  that 
I  was  here.  Peace  be  with  you." 

The  clock  chimed  the  quarter,  and  Dr.  Van 
Nest  looked  wide-eyed  at  the  place  where  the 
nun  had  been.  The  coals  in  the  grate  had 
turned  to  ashes.  The  gray  of  the  eastern  sky 
was  quickening  into  light.  Through  the  open 
windows  came  sounds  of  the  awakening  city, 
the  blowing  of  distant  whistles,  the  rumble  of 
wheels  borne  in  on  the  cold,  bracing  air  of  the 
day  that  was  just  born.  Some  were  already 
at  their  work.  Dr.  Van  Nest  closed  her  eyes, 
sank  back  among  her  pillows,  and  fell  asleep 
to  prepare  herself  for  hers  as  she  had  been  told. 

It  was  late  when  she  awoke,  and  she  had 
to  dress  and  breakfast  rapidly  to  keep  several 
199 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

morning  appointments.  She  was  almost  her 
self — quick,  alert,  clear-eyed.  She  pushed  reso 
lutely  into  her  mental  background  the  memory 
of  the  night's  experience.  This  was  the  close  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  and  she  was  a  fin  de 
siecle  product.  Visions  could  hardly  be  taken 
more  seriously  than  to  gather  from  them  such 
comfort  as  they  might  yield.  She  smiled  and 
sighed  at  the  same  time  as  she  entered  her  li 
brary  at  two  that  afternoon.  She  had  to  go  to 
her  friend's  house  at  three  to  perform  the  op 
eration,  but  in  the  interval  she  would  look  in 
the  old  desk  that  held  the  accumulated  notes 
of  years,  and  see  what  her  note-book  said.  Her 
hand  trembled  a  little  as  she  unlocked  the  low 
est  left-hand  drawer. 

Far  back  in  the  corner,  dust-covered  and 
hidden  under  some  French  journals,  was  the 
forgotten  note-book.  But  this  was  broad  day 
light,  and  the  life  of  the  great  city  was  going 
on  outside  of  her  library  windows.  It  had 
merely  been  a  logical  trick  of  memory,  she 
reflected,  that  had  brought  the  thought  of  the 
book  to  her  while  she  slept,  and  had  connected 
it  with  Sister  Estelle. 

She  sat  down  and  plunged  into  its  record. 

Yes.     Here  was  the  case  of  Madame  Bertrand. 

She  read  with  close  attention,  absorbed  in  the 

purely  scientific  interest  of  the  subject.     Sud- 

200 


Between   Darkness  and    Dawn 

denly  she  gave  a  little  gasp  of  satisfaction, 
and  made  two  or  three  notes.  Her  dream,  if 
a  perplexing  psychical  freak,  had  proved  a 
profitable  aid,  and  it  was  sweet  to  have  dream 
ed  of  Sister  Estelle  as  coming  to  her  in  her 
need. 

A  wave  of  perfume — sweet,  heavy,  full  of 
memories,  was  borne  in  upon  her  sense.  She 
looked  up  wonderingly  and  inhaled  it  deeply. 
The  air  was  perfumed  richly  with  mignonette. 
There  was  none  in  the  room,  none  on  the  desk, 
none  in  the  old  note-book  she  was  reading. 
No  mignonette  was  near  her  that  cold  Decem 
ber  day. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  leaned  forth. 
The  perfume  failed  her  utterly.  It  did  not 
come  from  without.  From  somewhere  in  her 
room  it  rose  in  such  a  whiff  as  she  had  not 
known  for  years.  There  had  been  a  great 
bed  of  it  in  the  convent  garden;  it  was  Sister 
Estelle's  favorite  flower. 

Sister  Estelle's  favorite  flower ! 

Dr.  Van  Nest's  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  The 
perfume  was  still  with  her  and  around  her. 
Her  nostrils  and  lungs  were  full  of  it — as  full 
as  they  had  been  the  day  Sister  Estelle  had 
been  laid  away  in  a  grave  which  the  doctor's 
own  hands  had  lined  with  the  simple  flower 
the  dead  nun  loved. 

201 


.  Tales  of  the  Cloister 

For  one  moment  she  was  rigidly  motionless, 
her  mind  working,  not  feverishly,  but  with  in 
tense  activity.  It  had  been  no  dream!  Sister 
Estelle  had  really  come  to  her  in  the  hour  of 
her  trying  need,  as  she  had  promised.  Here 
was  the  sign  which  was  to  convince  her  how 
peculiar  a  privilege  she  had  been  accorded  in 
that  personal  visit  of  her  old  convent  guardian. 
It  brought  a  certainty  as  great  as  Dr.  Van 
Nest  had  ever  known  in  her  life. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  erect,  her  eyes 
shining,  a  beaming  confidence  written  on  her 
face.  She  looked  at  her  watch.  Quarter  of 
three!  With  swift  despatch  she  threw  on  her 
coat,  drew  on  her  gloves,  and  put  on  her  hat. 
Then,  with  a  quick,  long  breath,  she  grasped 
firmly  her  surgeon's  case,  walked  briskly  to 
the  door  and  flung  it  open.  It  closed  after  her 
with  a  sharp  click. 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 


ISTER  PHILOMENE,  mistress  of 
novices  at  St.  Mary's,  fingered  ner 
vously  the  letter  she  held  in  her 
hand.  The  envelope,  addressed  to 
Sister  M.  Cuthbert,  lay  face  upward  on  the 
table  before  her.  She  looked  at  the  firm,  clear 
writing  and  smiled  ironically  when  she  realized 
that  she  was  studying  the  characteristic  slope 
of  the  letters  in  an  absent-minded  endeavor  to 
read  from  them  something  of  the  writer's  per 
sonality.  This  interest  in  chirography  was  the 
nearest  approach  to  a  hobby  in  the  life  of  the 
self-contained  nun.  It  seemed  singular,  how 
ever,  to  her  that  it  could  encroach  ever  so 
slightly  on  her  attention  when  her  mind  was 
engrossed  by  a  painful  problem. 

She  frowned  reflectingly  and  opened  the 
drawer  of  her  desk.  Another  letter,  addressed 
to  herself,  lay  in  it.  She  took  it  out,  drew  it 
from  its  envelope,  and  spread  it  open  on  the 
table  beside  the  first.  Then,  with  a  deepening 
205 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

of  the  line  between  her  severe,  straight  brows, 
she  carefully  reread  them  both.  The  second 
was  written  in  the  stiff,  angular  hand  of  age. 
It  exhibited  no  elegance  of  style,  but  the  cry  of 
a  human  heart  was  in  it : 

"  DEAR  CHILD, — You  will  grieve  to  hear  that  your 
father  cannot  remain  with  us  much  longer.  He  gets 
weaker  all  the  time,  and  the  doctor  says  he  cannot 
live  more  than  a  few  days.  He  is  conscious,  and 
knows  us  all.  He  knows  he  is  going  to  die,  but  he 
will  not  talk  about  it,  or  let  us  say  a  word  about  the 
salvation  of  his  soul.  You  know  how  much  I  want 
him  to  die  a  Catholic.  I  have  hoped  and  prayed  for 
fifty  years  that  he  would  be  converted,  and  you  have 
hoped  it,  too,  ever  since  you  were  old  enough  to  know 
what  it  meant.  But  he  says  he  will  die  in  the  Prot 
estant  faith  his  mother  taught  him. 

"  It  breaks  my  heart.  Even  Father  Murphy  is  al 
most  discouraged.  He  thinks  there  is  just  one  hope 
for  your  father,  and  that  is  you.  If  you  come  and 
talk  to  him,  he  may  listen.  He  loves  you,  and  you 
might  be  able  to  do  something  with  him.  I  cannot 
bear  to  think  of  his  death  unless  he  changes.  How 
can  I  live  alone  without  any  hope  of  meeting  him  in 
heaven?  He  keeps  asking  for  you  all  the  time. 
Come  home  and  see  him.  The  Superior  will  send 
you  home,  I  know,  if  you  tell  her  this.  Write  and 
let  me  know  when  to  expect  you.  There  is  no  time 
to  be  lost  MOTHER." 

"If  I  go,  Sister  Rodriguez  is  the  only  one 
206 


The   Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 

who  could  take  charge  of  my  duties/'  reflected 
Sister  Philomene.  "That  would  mean  that 
Sister  Cuthbert  would  have  to  take  her  place 
in  the  infirmary." 

She  read  again,  slowly,  the  letter  addressed 
to  the  novice : 

"  Sister  M.  Cuthbert. 

"  DEAR  MADAM, — You  will  pardon  the  intrusion 
of  a  friend  who  writes  in  your  interest.  I  feel  it  my 
duty  to  inform  you  of  the  very  alarming  condition 
of  your  mother.  Yesterday  at  the  request  of  the 
family  I  and  several  other  physicians  held  a  con 
sultation  over  her  case.  There  was  only  one  opinion. 
Unless  a  marked  change  for  the  better  comes  within 
forty-eight  hours,  we  must  look  for  the  end.  I  regret 
to  say  there  is  little  probability  of  such  a  change,  but 
there  is  one  chance  for  her,  and  that,  it  seems  to  me, 
rests  with  you. 

"  A  pathetic  feature  of  your  mother's  illness,  and 
one  which,  as  an  old  friend  of  the  family  as  well  as 
its  physician,  has  moved  me  deeply,  is  the  fact  that 
in  her  delirium  she  constantly  calls  for  you.  In  her 
conscious  moments  she  insists  with  the  unselfishness 
you  know  so  well  that  you  be  not  summoned  to  her, 
as  such  a  call  at  this  time  might  interfere  with  your 
duties  in  the  cloister.  She  has  made  the  family 
promise  not  to  send  for  you.  I,  however,  am  free  to 
follow  the  dictates  of  heart  and  reason,  and  I  refuse  to 
see  her  agonizing  for  her  daughter,  whose  presence  at 
this  juncture  might  afford  the  one  chance  of  her 
207 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

mother's  recovery,  without  doing  what  I  can  to  secure 
her  that  boon.  Now  you  have  the  facts.  You  will 
do  as  you  think  best — and  in  any  event  you  will 
pardon  the  interference  of  a  friend  who  has  known 
you  from  your  childhood. 

"Respectfully  yours, 

"HENRY  C.  SEDGWICK." 

"Sister  Cuthbert  must  take  as  much  of  Sis 
ter  Rodriguez's  work  as  she  can  while  I  am 
away/'  reflected  Sister  Philomene,  slowly.  "  Her 
mother  is  a  good  Catholic,  and  will  die  hap 
pily  in  the  Church.  She  herself  realizes  that 
her  daughter's  duty  lies  here.  The  case  is 
clear  to  me;  I  hope  it  will  be  to  Sister  Cuth 
bert.  And  yet — it  is  hard,  for  she  must  be 
told  of  it,  and  her  love  for  her  mother  is  the 
strongest  I  have  ever  seen.  " 

She  quietly  returned  the  letters  to  their  en 
velopes  after  this  brief  summing-up  of  the  ques 
tion.  It  was  part  of  her  routine  work  to  read 
the  correspondence  that  came  to  the  nuns  un 
der  her  care,  and  the  duty  frequently  brought 
in  its  train  harassing  problems  and  responsi 
bilities.  It  had  never  brought  her  a  harder 
one  than  this.  Before  her  rose  the  face  of  the 
young  novice,  at  work  in  happy  unconscious 
ness  of  the  clouds  that  hung  over  the  dear  home 
she  had  forsaken.  She  was  in  the  infirmary 
assisting  Sister  Rodriguez,  the  convent  infirma- 
208 


The  Ordeal  of   Sister  Cuthbert 

rian,  and  had  proved  a  tower  of  strength  to 
the  fragile  nun  whose  health  had  failed  sad 
ly  during  the  year.  In  fact,  it  was  a  question 
whether  Sister  Rodriguez  herself  would  not 
soon  be  forced  to  swell  the  list  of  invalids  un 
der  Sister  Cuthbert's  zealous  care.  She  had 
to  hurry  from  the  wing  of  the  convent  where 
the  sick  nuns  lay  to  the  dormitory  that  held 
the  ailing  pupils,  and  her  days  knew  little  rest. 
The  pupils  submitted  to  her  tender  ministra 
tions  with  touching  docility.  In  fact,  it  was 
whispered  that  the  presence  of  this  popular 
novice  in  the  infirmary  had  brought  about  an 
alarming  increase  in  the  list  of  applicants  for 
its  shelter. 

Only  Sister  Philomene  fully  understood  the 
far  -  reaching  influence  of  the  ascetic  novice  in 
whose  deep  eyes  burned  the  light  of  intense  re 
ligious  fervor.  Sister  Philomene  knew  why  the 
other  novices  went  to  Sister  Cuthbert  in  their 
trouble,  rather  than  to  her.  It  was  Sister  Cuth 
bert  who  soothed  them,  who  quieted  their  fears, 
who  prayed  for  them  and  with  them  when  doubt 
or  trials  assailed  them.  It  was  Sister  Cuth 
bert's  simple  piety,  so  deep  and  so  moving, 
which,  by  the  mere  fact  of  its  holiness,  had 
brought  many  to  a  realization  of  their  religion 
as  the  most  important  element  in  their  lives. 

"She  can  do  more  with  them  than  I  can," 
O  209 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Sister  Philomene  had  reported  to  the  Superior. 
She  recalled  the  remark  now  as  she  waited  for 
Sister  Cuthbert  to  respond  to  the  summons  she 
had  sent. 

"  I  wonder  how  she  will  take  it?"  she  thought. 
"  She  will  do  her  duty — there  is  no  doubt  of  that. 
But  will  this  experience  do  her  good  or  harm?" 
She  started  almost  guiltily  at  the  sound  of  Sis 
ter  Cuthbert's  gentle  tap  on  the  door,  and  when 
the  young  nun  had  entered  and  stood  awaiting 
orders  with  respectful,  downcast  eyes,  her  supe 
rior  found  it  oddly  difficult  to  speak.  When  she 
spoke,  the  words  came  slowly. 

"We  have  both  had  bad  news,  Sister,"  she 
said.  "  We  must  pray  for  each  other,  that  God 
may  give  us  strength  to  bear  it  rightly." 

She  handed  the  two  letters  to  her  and  bade 
her  read  them.  Sitting  in  her  big  chair,  she 
noted  with  her  steady,  clear  eyes  every  change 
of  expression  on  the  other's  face.  There  were 
many.  Sister  Cuthbert  had  unfolded  her  own 
letter  first  and  glanced  at  the  signature.  Then, 
with  a  quick  flush  and  a  word  of  apology,  she 
laid  it  down  and  read  the  other  slowly  and 
carefully.  She  looked  up  when  she  finished, 
with  a  sweet,  modest  sympathy  in  her  glance. 
Her  reverence  for  her  superior  had  something 
of  awe  in  it.  She  was  about  to  speak,  when 
Sister  Philomene  said,  quietly  : 

210 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 

"Read  your  letter,  Sister  Cuthbert." 

There  was  silence  in  the  little  office,  broken 
only  by  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  marking  off 
the  slow,  precious  moments  of  the  cloister. 
Sister  Cuthbert  hurried  through  her  letter, 
growing  white  as  she  read.  At  the  end,  she 
raised  her  eyes  quickly  to  meet  the  grave  gaze 
fixed  on  her. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said,  breathlessly.  "I 
ought  to  go.  Reverend  Mother  has  promised 
that  I  may  obey  a  call  like  this  from  my  moth 
er."  Her  voice  was  choked  and  her  features 
looked  ghastly  in  the  dim  light  of  the  little 
room.  "I  may  start  at  once,  may  I  not?"  she 
added,  turning  towards  the  door. 

Sister  Philomene  rose  and  laid  a  lightly 
detaining  hand  upon  her  arm.  This  was  one 
of  the  crises  to  which  she  was  accustomed,  and 
she  knew  how  to  meet  it.  Sister  Cuthbert  was 
very  human,  she  reflected,  after  all. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  gently.  "You  have  for 
gotten  something.  Your  mother  is  dying  a 
good  Catholic,  with  all  the  consolations  of  re 
ligion.  My  father  is  at  the  point  of  death, 
and  is  not  a  Catholic.  I  shall  submit  both 
these  letters  to  Reverend  Mother.  If  I  go, 
there  is  no  one  to  take  my  place  but  Sister 
Rodriguez;  there  is  no  one  but  you  to  take 
hers.  It  will  have  to  be  for  both  of  us  what 
211 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Reverend  Mother  decides,  but  I  should  be  glad 
to  have  your  own  heart  select  now  what  later 
may  be  imposed  as  obedience." 

Sister  Cuthbert  sank  upon  her  knees  and 
laid  her  forehead  against  the  carved  arm  of 
the  chair  from  which  her  superior  had  risen. 
Tears  poured  from  her  eyes. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  said,  chokingly.  "For 
give  me — and  may  God  forgive  me.  I  was 
selfish;  I  thought  only  of  myself.  I  must 
stay.  And  I  will  pray  for  my  dear  mother 
here — "  she  stopped.  The  older  woman  slip 
ped  a  strong  hand  under  her  arm  and  helped 
her  to  her  feet. 

"You  have  chosen  wisely,"  she  said.  "It 
is  well  that  you  made  this  sacrifice  voluntari 
ly — well,  indeed.  But  your  ordeal  may  come 
later.  Go  to  the  chapel  and  pray  for  strength 
to  bear  it." 

She  heard  the  door  close  and  the  soft  steps 
of  the  novice  recede  in  the  distance.  There 
was  an  unusually  mild  expression  in  her  keen 
gray  eyes  as  she  went  to  the  Mother  Superior 
with  the  two  letters.  She  submitted  them 
without  a  word. 

In  the  dim  chapel  of  the  convent  Sister  Cuth 
bert  knelt  before  the  altar  and  prayed  chok 
ingly.  In  her  short,  serene  life  no  such  grief 
as  this  had  come  to  her  before,  and  the  an- 
212 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 

guish  of  it  rolled  over  her  like  a  great  wave. 
Yes,  she  would  do  her  duty — with  all  her  soul 
would  she  do  it.  But  could  she  bear  the  pain? 
Could  she  live  through  the  next  few  days, 
hearing  in  her  ears  the  voice  of  her  mother 
calling  to  her  in  her  delirium — as  she  heard 
it  now,  as  she  would  hear  it  day  and  night — 
until  the  end?  Seeing  her  mother's  face,  the 
soft  brown  eyes  looking  for  her  so  eagerly — 
looking  for  her  whom  they  would  never  see 
again.  She  would  not  go — no.  She  would 
stay,  as  duty  and  her  own  will  dictated.  But 
could  mind  and  body  stand  the  strain?  Could 
she  listen  to  that  voice,  that  dearly  loved  voice, 
calling,  calling — and  calling  in  vain?  It  was 
in  her  ears  now,  in  the  silent  chapel.  Would 
she  ever  cease  to  hear  it  if  she  did  not  obey  it? 
Only  one  short  half-hour  had  passed  since  she 
read  that  letter,  and  already  she  seemed  to 
have  gone  through  the  suffering  of  a  long 
life.  Could  she  bear  it?  Or  was  it  some  awful 
dream,  some  hideous  fantasy  of  the  night 
from  which  she  would  mercifully  awake?  If 
that  was  it —  Oh,  God,  for  daylight!  She  felt 
as  if  she  might  shriek  aloud.  Never  had  she 
been  conscious  of  the  restraint  of  convent  walls 
till  now.  Was  she  losing  her  mind?  Was 
she  going  to  succumb  to  the  assault  of  one 
great  affliction? 

213 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

Ah,  but  such  a  grief — and  such  a  mother! 
True,  she  had  left  her  mother.  She  had  given 
her  up  when  she  heard  the  call  to  the  cloister, 
and  they  had  both  realized,  the  two  who  loved 
each  other  so  fondly,  all  that  separation  meant. 
But  her  mother  had  been  well  and  strong  and 
happy  in  the  love  of  her  husband  and  her  other 
daughter.  At  the  stipulated  intervals  her  let 
ters  had  come  to  the  convent  without  the  ma 
ternal  tenderness  and  the  home  atmosphere 
they  breathed  ever  causing  a  regret  in  the 
nun's  breast.  But  now,  in  sickness,  in  sor 
row,  in  death — oh,  if  she  could  be  there,  with 
her  mother! 

Sister  Cuthbert  sank  lower  before  the  altar. 
She  had  forgotten  \vhere  she  was;  almost  for 
gotten  what  she  was.  She  drooped,  a  huddled 
mass  of  black,  under  the  white  veil  that  told 
of  her  probation. 

Yes,  she  reflected  stanchly,  her  place  was 
here,  and  here  she  would  remain.  Was  it  only 
yesterday  she  had  been  so  happy?  Now  she 
felt  like  a  prisoner,  for  her  mother  lay  dying 
outside  the  walls  within  which,  by  her  own 
act,  she  had  shut  herself  away.  She  had 
come,  and  her  mother  had  wished  her  to  come. 
Were  they  both  wrong  in  feeling  that  here  her 
life-work  lay?  Never!  A  thrill  of  the  old  ec 
stasy  in  her  choice  filled  the  nun.  Across  the 
214 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 

black  of  her  horizon  a  blue  line  appeared  dim 
ly.  She  straightened  herself,  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  prayed  again.  And  as  she 
prayed  the  clouds  that  had  obscured  her  soul 
were  dissipated  and  peace  came  to  her. 

Thank  God,  it  was  only  a  passing  storm 
that  had  struck  her.  Through  all  she  had  not 
really  wavered  in  her  choice.  This  was  her 
life — this  the  ideal  life — she,  one  of  those  glori 
ously  privileged  to  share  it.  If  she  had  seemed 
to  waver,  it  was  because  the  strongest  human 
love  she  knew  was  threatened.  She  had  been 
weak,  she  would  be  strong;  she  had  rebelled, 
she  would  be  submissive.  Tears  rolled  down 
her  cheeks,  but  they  were  those  that  fall  when 
the  storm  has  spent  itself.  After  their  sooth 
ing  flow,  the  young  nun  raised  her  head  as  a 
flower  straightens  itself  under  an  April  shower. 

She  was  alone  in  the  chapel.  That  was  fort 
unate,  she  thought.  No  other  eye  had  seen  her 
struggle,  no  one  but  her  Maker  knew  how  far 
she  had  fallen  below  the  standard  she  had  set 
herself.  But  she  would  go  on  from  this  point 
unfalteringly.  The  dear  mother  would  under 
stand — she  who  always  understood.  Even  here, 
she  would  see — and  how  much  more  beyond! 
What  was  this  little  life,  this  little  world, 
that  one  should  mourn  over  a  few  years  of 
separation?  After  it  came  the  enduring  peace 
215 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

of  perfect  union.  Sister  Cuthbert  looked  up 
at  the  altar;  in  her  eyes  burned  their  habit 
ual  look  of  exaltation.  The  suffering  of  the 
hour  had  left  few  traces  on  her  serene  face.  It 
was  over.  She  had  struggled;  she  had  con 
quered;  she  could  endure.  She  leaned  her 
head  against  the  low  railing  with  a  parting 
prayer  of  resignation  and  faith. 

"Into  Thy  dear  hands,  O  Lord,  I  place  my 
self  utterly;  and  there,  too,  I  place  the  dear 
mother  whom  I  love  more  than  anything  save 
Thee.  Be  Thou  the  more  with  her,  now  that 
Thy  will  keeps  me  from  her." 

Her  eyes  were  wide  open,  but  she  no  longer 
saw  the  altar  and  the  familiar  surroundings  of 
the  chapel.  Instead  there  came  before  her  viv 
idly  an  old  Colonial  house,  towards  the  entrance 
of  which  she  seemed  to  be  walking  up  a  gar 
den  path.  The  door  opened.  She  entered  the 
house,  passed  through  the  wide  hall,  and  up  the 
broad  steps  that  led  to  the  second  floor.  At 
the  head  of  them  she  turned  to  the  right  and 
entered  a  large,  square  room.  She  moved  with 
accustomed  steps,  for  she  knew  every  inch  of 
the  way,  and  all  the  objects  on  which  her  eyes 
rested  were  the  familiar  surroundings  of  her 
early  years.  It  was  her  home. 

The  room  she  entered  was  full,  but  no  one 
heeded  her.  She  walked  its  length  to  the  bed 
216 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 

between  the  windows  opposite  the  door,  and 
took  her  station  at  its  head.  In  the  bed  lay 
her  mother,  with  closed  eyes;  she  seemed  to 
breathe,  but  that  was  all.  Dr.  Sedgwick  held 
the  sick  woman's  hand  in  his,  counting  the 
pulse.  Beside  him  stood  a  strange  man  with 
a  professional  air  whom  the  nun  had  never 
seen  before.  At  the  foot  of  the  bed  knelt  her 
father,  his  face  hidden  in  the  counterpane,  and 
her  sister  Edith  sat  in  a  large  chair  near  him, 
her  head  buried  in  her  hands.  The  physicians 
talked  softly,  but  the  nun  could  not  hear  what 
they  said.  This  did  not  surprise  her,  nor  the 
fact  that  no  one  observed  her  entrance.  She 
looked  steadily  at  her  mother's  face  and  saw 
the  eyelids  flicker.  The  physicians  bent  over 
their  patient.  They  wrorked  rapidly.  Some 
thing  was  done;  something  that  looked  like  a 
battery  was  applied.  There  was  a  quantity  of 
apparatus  near  the  bed,  unfamiliar  to  her.  At 
last  the  mother's  eyes  opened.  She  alone  of 
those  in  the  room  saw  the  black-robed  novice  at 
the  head  of  the  bed.  Over  her  face  flashed  a 
look  of  recognition  and  delight. 

"Katherine,"  she  gasped.  "You  have  come 
— how  good — dear  child — now  I  can  die  content. " 

She  smiled  the  old  familiar  smile,  and  closed 
her  eyes.  Over  her  face  a  gray  shadow  fell. 
Even  as  the  nun  looked  the  features  seemed  to 
217 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

stiffen.  The  doctors  stepped  back,  and  Dr. 
Sedgwick,  going  to  the  man  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  put  a  sympathetic  hand  under  his  arm 
and  helped  him  to  rise.  Edith,  who  had  sprung 
to  her  feet,  sank  down  again  with  a  bitter  cry. 
The  strange  doctor  drew  the  sheet  gently  over 
the  still  face  on  the  pillow. 

And  now  there  were  tapers  burning  about 
that  placid  face. — No! — This  was  the  convent 
chapel,  and  the  tapers  were  those  that  burned 
dimly  on  the  altar.  It  had  grown  dark  and 
cold.  She  was  still  upon  her  knees.  She 
heard  the  sound  of  the  vesper  bell. 

Oh,  the  tender  mercifulness  of  God!  She 
had  given  up  seeing  her  mother  after  the  long, 
rebellious  outcry  of  her  weak,  human  heart. 
And  then  He  had  taken  her  to  her  mother,  who 
had  seen  her  and  had  died  in  peace.  She 
seemed  not  to  touch  the  floor  as  she  walked 
down  the  long  aisle  and  out  of  the  chapel  to 
the  main  hall  beyond. 

One  of  the  nuns  met  her  and  spoke  as  she 
passed.  Sister  Cuthbert  replied  with  her  usual 
sweet  dignity,  but  her  expression,  in  the  white 
light  of  the  electric  globe  overhead,  breathed 
such  exaltation  that  the  nun  stopped  and  looked 
after  her  with  reverent  wonder.  Sister  Cuth 
bert  went  directly  to  the  room  of  the  Mother 
Superior  and  told  her  experience. 
218 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 

In  the  days  that  followed,  the  influence  of  Sis 
ter  Cuthbert,  always  benign,  had  in  it  in  the  sick 
room  a  new  element  which  even  the  most  care 
less  of  the  girls  felt  strongly.  In  the  past  she 
had  helped,  strengthened,  and  comforted.  Now 
she  seemed  to  uplift  as  well — to  bear  others  up 
ward  by  the  gentle  force  of  her  own  spiritual 
ascent.  If  there  had  been  any  criticism  of  her 
in  the  old  days,  among  those  most  severe  of 
critics,  the  school-girls,  it  was  that  she  was  vis 
ionary. 

"She  is  not  human  enough;  she  is  not  one 
of  us,"  they  had  said.  "  She  lives  in  a  rare 
fied  atmosphere.  Her  sympathy  is  not  the 
sympathy  of  understanding;  it  is  sympathy  in 
the  abstract — a  regret  over  something  she  has 
never  known  and  only  half  gets." 

Groping  around  now  in  their  puzzled  minds 
for  an  explanation  of  the  change  in  her,  they 
decided  that  the  new  element  was  a  human  one 
— the  sympathy  of  perfect  understanding.  But 
with  it  was  an  increase  of  the  spiritual  qual 
ity  which  had  always  characterized  the  young 
nun. 

"She  is  more  ecstatic  in  her  moods  than 
ever,"  said  May  Iverson,  slowly,  "and  yet, 
somehow,  she  is  more  of  us.  What  an  at 
mosphere  she  gives  out!  Her  mere  presence 
is  like  a  prayer.  The  expression  is  not  new, 
219 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

but  how  it  fits! — how  well  it  fits!  She  is  go 
ing  through  some  experience,  take  my  word 
for  it;  something  we  know  nothing  about." 

Sister  Philomene  returned  a  week  from  the 
day  she  had  left.  Her  father  had  passed  away, 
but  one  look  at  her  face  made  Sister  Cuthbert 
feel  that  her  mission  had  been  successful. 
There  was  no  time  for  conversation  between 
the  two  on  the  subjects  so  near  to  both.  Sis 
ter  Cuthbert  made  her  verbal  report  with  her 
usual  sweet  conciseness,  and,  though  Sister 
Philomene  felt  the  subtle  change  in  her,  she 
could  ask  no  questions. 

The  afternoon  of  her  return  the  portress 
brought  Sister  Philomene  a  message  and  a 
card.  The  card  read : 

HENRY  C.  SEDGWICK,  M.D. 

The  message,  conscientiously  delivered  by 
the  little  portress,  was  rather  a  lengthy  one. 
The  gentleman,  she  said,  was  the  physician 
of  Sister  Cuthbert's  family.  Sister  Cuthbert's 
mother  had  died  a  week  ago,  and  the  doctor 
wished  to  tell  the  young  nun  of  her  affliction 
and  give  her  some  details  concerning  the  last 
hours  of  her  mother's  life.  He  had  not  made 
the  journey  for  that  purpose;  professional  bus 
iness  had  brought  him  to  the  city  near  the  con- 
220 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 

vent,  and  he  had  driven  there  on  the  chance 
that  an  interview  might  be  granted  him.  And 
because  he  was  to  come,  her  family  had  not 
yet  written  her  of  their  great  loss.  Sister 
Philomene  made  her  decision  promptly. 

"Ask  him  to  be  so  kind  as  to  wait,"  she 
said  to  the  portress,  "  and  tell  Sister  Cuthbert 
I  would  like  to  see  her."  She  glanced  sym 
pathetically  at  the  young  nun  when  she  re 
sponded  to  the  summons. 

"Dr.  Sedgwick  is  here  to  see  you,"  she  said, 
"  and  to  tell  you  the  details  of  your  dear  moth 
er's — death.  We  will  go  to  him  together,  if 
you  would  like  it."  She  straightened  the  pa 
pers  on  her  desk  very  carefully  as  she  spoke, 
and  listened,  with  a  little  quickening  of  her 
steady  heart-beats,  for  some  sound  from  the 
other  woman.  There  was  none.  Sister  Cuth 
bert  was  silently  moving  towards  the  door. 
She  stepped  back  as  she  reached  it,  and  stood 
aside  for  her  superior  to  precede  her.  Sister 
Philomene  looked  at  her  as  she  passed,  and 
something  in  the  nun's  expression  made  her 
catch  her  breath.  Sister  Cuthbert  was  almost 
smiling. 

The  doctor,  awaiting  them  in  the  prim  lit 
tle  reception-room  at  the  right  of  the  convent 
entrance,  was  stalking  up  and  down  the  high 
ly  polished  floor,  bending  his  shaggy  head 
221 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

over  the  wax  pieces  on  the  small  tables,  and 
scrutinizing  with  his  near-sighted  eyes  the 
paintings  and  embroideries  on  the  wall.  He 
dreaded  the  fifteen  minutes  before  him  with 
his  keener  realization  of  the  cost  of  the  kind 
ly  impulse  that  had  made  him  come.  But  the 
sense  of  personal  tax  faded  away  as  he  turned 
to  greet  the  young  nun  he  had  known  since 
she  was  a  child.  He  held  out  both  hands,  and 
she  laid  her  own  in  them.  Then  he  bowed 
gravely  to  the  Sister  who  accompanied  her, 
and  placed  chairs  for  them  both  with  punc 
tilious  courtesy.  Not  a  word  had  been  spoken, 
but  his  quick  eyes  had  already  taken  in  every 
detail  of  the  novice's  expression,  and  he,  too, 
wondered. 

"You  can  surmise  my  melancholy  errand, 
Sister/'  he  said,  gently.  "Your  dear  mother 
died  a  week  ago  to-day — the  day  you  must 
have  received  the  letter  I  wrote  telling  you  of 
her  illness.  You  could  hardly  have  reached 
her  in  time,  you  see,  even  had  you  started  at 
once.  I  thought  there  might  be  some  com 
fort  to  you  in  hearing  of  her  last  hours,  and  so 
I  have  ventured  to  make  this  call." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  the  nun,  softly. 

Dr.  Sedgwick  rubbed  his  glasses.  He  was 
conscious  of  a  sensation  touching  on  irritabil 
ity.  Was  this  the  warm-hearted  girl  he  had 
222 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 

known — this  woman  who  had  not  one  tear  for 
her  mother's  death?  Or  was  it  another  illus 
tration  of  the  drying-up  of  all  human  impulse 
which  he  believed  convent  life  entailed?  He 
unconsciously  took  on  his  most  professional 
manner  as  he  continued. 

"  There  was  no  pain  or  suffering  at  the  last. 
But  one  rather  extraordinary  thing  happened. 
Your  mother,  as  I  wrote  you,  had  been  calling 
for  you  constantly.  Just  at  the  end  she  became 
conscious,  and  she  thought  she  saw  you.  She 
spoke  to  you  and  died  happy  in  the  belief  that 
you  were  with  her." 

"I  was,"  said  Sister  Cuthbert,  quietly;  "I 
was  there."  She  lifted  her  eyes  as  she  spoke 
and  fixed  them  on  the  doctor's  face.  He  re 
garded  her  with  professional  calm. 

"Sister  Cuthbert  means,"  interrupted  Sis 
ter  Philomene,  gently,  "  that  she  was  there  in 
spirit  and  sympathy.  Her  duties  kept  her 
here.  It  was  unfortunate,  but  we  could  not 
permit  her  to  go." 

"I  was  there,"  repeated  Sister  Cuthbert, 
with  quiet  conviction.  She  seemed  not  to 
have  heard  the  other  woman's  words.  She 
spoke  slowly,  as  one  who  describes  a  picture 
and  wishes  to  overlook  no  detail. 

"She  died  between  four  and  five  o'clock," 
she  continued,  "  in  her  own  room.  The  bed  had 
223 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

been  moved  between  the  two  large  windows. 
You  were  there,  and  another  man  I  had  never 
seen  before,  who  seemed  to  be  a  doctor,  too — 
both  standing  at  the  left  side  of  the  bed.  You 
held  my  mother's  hand  and  counted  her  pulse. 
Father  knelt  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with  his 
face  buried  in  the  bedclothes.  My  sister  Edith 
sat  on  a  chair  near  him.  When  you  were  giv 
ing  my  mother  some  stimulant  she  revived 
and  saw  me.  She  said,  '  Katherine — you  have 
come — how  good — dear  child.  Now  I  can  die 
content. '  Then  she — fell  asleep,  and  you  helped 
my  dear  old  stricken  father  to  his  feet." 

Comprehension  dawned  on  the  doctor's  face. 
"Oh,  you  have  heard  from  your  father  or  sis 
ter,  after  all,"  he  said,  more  briskly  and  with 
an  air  of  relief.  "They  said  they  would  not 
write,  as  I  was  to  tell  you  personally.  But  I 
see  they  have  given  you  minute  details." 

"No  one  has  written,"  said  the  novice,  sim 
ply.  "I  have  not  heard  one  word."  She  was 
very  erect,  and  her  pure  tones  had  the  throb 
bing  quality  of  a  cello  string. 

"I  saw  it  all — the  whole  scene — as  I  knelt 
before  the  altar  in  our  chapel,  where  I  had 
been  praying  God  for  strength  to  do  my  duty 
here.  He  gave  it  —  and  more.  He  took  me 
there,  my  mother  saw  me,  and  I  saw  her  die. 
I  told  Reverend  Mother  of  it  that  night — just 
224 


The  Ordeal  of  Sister  Cuthbert 

as  I  have  told  it  now.  Oh  —  the  glory  of  it, 
the  goodness  of  it,  the  miracle  of  it!  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  can  endure  her  death  after  that? 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  can  smile,  though  she 
has  gone?" 

Sister  Philomene  started  to  her  feet.  Her 
serene  face  was  transfigured  by  a  reflection  of 
the  light  that  shone  from  the  face  of  the  nov 
ice.  She  crossed  herself.  Without  doubt  or 
question  she  accepted  the  experience,  as  Sis 
ter  Cuthbert  had  done,  as  a  manifestation  of 
the  divine  love  and  mercy.  Her  lips  moved 
as  she  prayed  silently.  Sister  Cuthbert,  too, 
was  praying.  Both  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
that  they  were  not  alone. 

Dr.  Sedgwick  took  his  hat  and  turned  it 
doubtfully  in  his  hands.  He  looked  at  the 
inspired  faces  of  the  nuns  and  his  eyes  drop 
ped  as  he  bowed  his  farewell.  Here  was  some 
thing  new  in  his  experience.  Give  him  time 
and  he  could  explain  the  thing,  he  thought. 
In  fact,  half  a  dozen  explanations  suggested 
themselves  as  he  went  slowly  down  the  steps 
that  led  from  the  convent  entrance  to  the  street. 
The  novice  was  in  an  overwrought,  nervous 
state  at  the  time  of  the — er — vision,  he  reflect 
ed.  She  knew  the  house  and  the  room,  and 
some  telepathic  signal  might  have  come  to  her 
at  the  hour  of  her  mother's  death.  But  she  had 
P  225 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

described  the  scene  so  accurately!  How  could 
she  know  the  mother's  very  words,  and  that 
little  incident  of  his  helping  the  broken  hus 
band  to  rise? 

Dr.  Sedgwick  stopped  a  passing  cab  and 
jumped  in.  His  nerves  were  on  edge.  He 
did  not  like  to  meet  these  supernatural  expe 
riences  on  a  bright,  warm  day  in  the  begin 
ning  of  the  scientific  twentieth  century.  The 
clang  of  the  cable-car  was  in  his  ears,  the 
shouts  of  quarrelsome  cabmen  rising  above  it, 
yet  in  these  most  prosaic  surroundings  that 
strange  experience  kept  obtruding  itself.  Dr. 
Sedgwick  put  it  away  at  last  by  a  strong  effort 
of  will. 

"Too  much  work,  not  enough  nourishment, 
I'm  afraid/'  he  reflected,  practically.  "What 
she  needs  is  a  change  of  air,  rest,  and  good 
food."  This  was  satisfactory  as  far  as  it  went. 
But  no  sooner  had  the  doctor  nicely  adjusted 
his  point  of  view  than  he  recalled,  with  sur 
prising  vividness,  that  scene  in  the  death-room. 

Oh,  the  radiance  of  the  dying  face  as  the 
woman  had  looked  up  at  that  empty  corner: 
"  Katherine — you  have  come — how  good — dear 
child.  Now  I  can  die  content." 

What  had  she  seen?  Dr.  Sedgwick  brusque 
ly  turned  away  from  the  answer. 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

AY  IVERSON  took  one  long,  ap 
praising  look  at  the  child  and  dubbed 
her  "The  Imp."  It  was  the  Imp's 
first  day  at  St.  Mary's,  but  the  ob 
vious  fitness  of  the  name  was  realized  before 
the  week  had  passed,  and  the  pupils  adopted 
it  enthusiastically,  regardless  of  the  stern  dis 
approval  of  the  nuns. 

The  Imp  was  just  ten.  According  to  May 
Iverson,  who  seriously  asserted  that  she  had 
analyzed  it,  the  blood  that  flowed  in  the  Imp's 
veins  was  in  equal  parts  French,  Russian, 
Spanish,  Tartar,  and  Indian.  There  was  some 
color  for  this  extravagant  statement  in  the 
Imp's  appearance,  which  wras  overwhelming 
ly  foreign.  Her  great,  dark  eyes  illumined  a 
very  olive  skin,  and  the  mass  of  hair  that  waved 
above  them  in  riotous  confusion  was  jet  black 
and  fiercely  curly.  The  strict  rule  of  the  con 
vent  demanding  smooth  hair  was  violated  by 
these  flamboyant  spirals,  but  even  as  the  nuns 
229 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

noticed  them  the  Imp  was  violating  so  many 
more  important  rules  that  they  held  their  breath 
and  gave  thought  and  prayer  to  the  human 
problem  before  them. 

The  Imp  arrived  at  St.  Mary's  late  Satur 
day  evening  and  was  at  once  put  to  bed.  The 
strangeness  of  her  surroundings  kept  her  quiet 
that  night,  much  to  the  surprise  of  the  nuns 
as  they  afterwards  recalled  the  fact.  But  in 
chapel  Sunday  morning,  during  the  eminent 
ly  elevating  discourse  by  Father  Fabian,  this 
unnatural  self-control  of  the  Imp  gave  way, 
and  within  half  an  hour  five  fat  little  girls 
lifted  their  voices  and  wept  aloud,  and  were 
ignominiously  led  down  the  middle  aisle  in 
full  view  of  the  scandalized  congregation. 
Two  of  the  victims  were  observed  to  cling 
close  to  each  other  and  walk  with  a  peculiar, 
side-long  motion.  It  was  subsequently  re 
vealed  that  the  new  pupil  had  tied  their  blond 
braids  together  with  a  dexterity  and  unyield 
ing  strength  evidently  due  to  long  practice. 
Her  attentions  to  the  others  were  less  original, 
but  no  less  obnoxious.  She  had  merely  thrust 
a  hat-pin  into  the  plump  arm  of  one,  dropped 
a  slate-pencil  down  the  back  of  another,  and 
made  a  face  of  such  awful  ferocity  at  the  third 
that  she  shrieked  aloud  in  terror  from  the  rude 
shock  to  her  nervous  system.  The  Imp  had 
230 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

selected  plump  victims  because  their  rotund 
and  placid  appearance  irritated  her.  She  was 
herself  excessively  thin  and  abnormally  rest 
less. 

These  incidents,  all  of  which  occurred  within 
one  brief  but  exciting  half-hour,  brought  home 
to  the  nuns  the  fact  that  little  Mercedes  Centi, 
the  new  pupil,  might  be  an  element  of  discord 
in  their  peaceful  retreat.  They  discussed  her 
with  forebodings  during  the  interval  between 
high  mass  and  the  noon  meal.  It  seemed 
rather  soon  to  adopt  stringent  measures  of  pun 
ishment;  she  had  not  been  with  them  twenty- 
four  hours.  They  decided  to  try  moral  suasion ; 
and  so  for  an  hour  and  a  half  that  afternoon 
two  of  the  Sisters  pointed  out  to  the  Imp  the 
error  of  her  ways  while  she  watched,  with 
the  strained  interest  of  one  lost  to  all  else,  the 
gyrations  of  a  large  "blue-bottle"  that  buzzed 
about  the  window-panes.  It  is  to  be  feared 
that  she  lost  some  of  the  edifying  discourse 
directed  to  her,  but  the  nuns  afterwards  felt 
that  some  of  it  must  have  found  a  place  in 
her  consciousness;  for  later  in  the  day  Mer 
cedes  called  the  other  pupils  around  her  while 
she  unpacked  her  trunks  and  generously  gave 
them  most  of  her  earthly  possessions.  These 
gifts  were  afterwards  recalled  by  the  nuns,  and 
it  was  intimated  to  Mercedes  that  she  might 
231 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

need  her  own  dresses,  lingerie,  and  books;  but 
the  incident  was  an  encouraging  one,  suggest 
ing  that  the  Imp  was  not  all  bad.  She  might 
have,  must  have,  redeeming  qualities. 

The  correctness  of  this  view  was  demon 
strated  as  the  weeks  went  by.  During  the 
most  exciting  days  the  quiet  community  had 
known  in  years,  the  nuns  added  to  their  store 
of  information  concerning  the  nature  and 
characteristics  of  Mercedes  Centi.  It  was  a 
difficult  lesson  they  were  learning,  for  the  ex 
perience  of  each  day  upset  the  carefully  form 
ed  theories  based  on  that  of  the  day  before. 
But  out  of  it  all,  in  the  end,  one  truth  loomed 
large.  Never  in  the  history  of  St.  Mary's  had 
so  bad  a  little  girl  been  sheltered  in  its  walls 
— and  never  in  the  history  of  the  world  had  a 
bad  little  girl  shown  so  many  fascinating  qual 
ities.  These  latter  glowed  tenderly,  like  a  rain 
bow  after  a  storm,  but,  unlike  that  curve  of 
promise,  they  had  no  fixed  time  for  their  ap 
pearance,  nor  were  they  subject  to  any  law. 
The  manners  of  Mercedes,  when  she  chose  to 
be  good,  were  those  to  make  one  weep  with  joy. 
Her  generosity  was  proverbial;  she  scorned  a 
lie;  she  loved  animals;  she  was  the  friend  of 
all  helpless  things — except  her  teachers!  For 
the  rest,  there  were  periods  when  for  weeks 
the  Imp  went  about  like  a  small  human  Ve- 
232 


Saint   Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

suvius,  breeding  desolation  by  her  fiery  erup 
tions. 

It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this  story  to  tell  the 
things  the  Imp  did :  this  is  a  moral  tale.  But 
one  nun  after  another  succumbed  in  the  strug 
gle  with  her  until  throughout  the  length  of  the 
great  building  there  was  a  demand,  without 
one  dissenting  voice,  that  the  Imp  be  removed. 
There  were  reasons,  however,  as  the  Superior 
knew,  that  made  her  removal  a  difficult  mat 
ter.  Her  father  had  frankly  declared  his  off 
spring's  failings,  and  had  warned  the  Sisters 
that  her  presence  would  not  add  to  their  com 
fort.  They  had  quieted  his  doubts  with  suave 
assurances,  strong  through  memory  of  other 
small  tartars  conquered  and  reclaimed.  Then 
he  had  paid  a  year's  tuition  in  advance  and 
departed  for  South  America,  both  he  and  his 
daughter  bearing  their  farewell  with  suspi 
cious  cheerfulness.  He  was  a  widower,  and 
there  were  no  relatives,  so  far  as  the  nuns 
knew,  to  take  the  child  in  his  absence.  She 
was  on  their  hands! 

The  Imp's  class  teacher  had  a  mild  attack  of 
hysteria  when  this  ultimatum  was  announced 
to  her,  and  her  despair  was  shared,  though  less 
wildly,  by  the  other  Sisters  whose  duties  brought 
them  into  daily  association  with  Mercedes.  The 
pupils  openly  rejoiced.  The  Imp  was  trying  at 

233 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

times  even  to  them,  but  there  was  no  denying 
that  since  her  arrival  life  had  taken  on  fuller, 
richer  tones.  They  suffered  frequently,  but 
soon  learned  to  do  it  with  no  more  complaint 
than  was  strictly  necessary. 

A  puzzling  feature  of  the  Imp's  case  was 
her  entire  lack  of  human  affection.  Not  one 
pupil,  not  one  Sister,  had  ever  touched  the 
stormy  heart  of  Mercedes  Centi.  Other  little 
girls  went  about  with  their  arms  around  each 
other's  waists  and  wrote  notes  to  each  other, 
and  then  quarrelled  and  sat  for  hours  in  a 
stricken  grief  that  all  might  see.  Every  little 
girl  had  some  favorite  nun  on  whose  desk  she 
laid  her  offering  whenever  a  box  came  from 
home,  and  whom  she  followed  about  as  con 
stantly  and  as  devotedly  as  circumstances  and 
the  Sister  would  permit.  But  the  Imp  stood 
ostentatiously  aloof  and  showed  open  scorn 
for  these  fine  feelings  she  could  not  share. 
Nun  after  nun  tried  her  blandishments  in  vain. 
Small  girl  after  small  girl  made  friendly 
advances,  only  to  be  spurned.  In  cold  self- 
exile  from  the  isle  of  friendship,  the  Imp  fol 
lowed  what  May  Iverson  called  "her  career  of 
danger  and  daring/' 

On  one  occasion  only  did  she  show  a  tem 
porary  interest  in  human  companionship.  She 
had  met  Sister  Ernesta  in  the  garden — Saint 
234 


Saint   Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

Ernesta,  as  the  girls  called  the  oldest  and  most 
venerated  Sister  in  the  convent.  Sister  Er 
nesta  was  almost  eighty,  an  age  few  nuns 
attain.  Her  active  share  in  the  work  of  the 
community  was  over,  but  her  benign  influ 
ence  permeated  the  place  like  perfume,  and  pu 
pils  and  nuns  alike  worshipped  at  her  shrine. 
Saint  Ernesta  had  grown  more  collected  in  her 
self  with  the  passing  of  the  years :  the  long  life 
of  which  she  was  so  near  the  end  seemed  like  a 
dream  as  she  looked  back  at  it.  Few  things 
except  her  devotions  were  vital  to  her  now,  yet 
there  was  something  very  beautiful  in  her  face 
as  she  sat  waiting  for  the  final  summons. 
When  she  took  her  rare  walks  down  the  long 
halls  or  through  the  garden  paths,  her  gentle 
smile  was  unfailingly  given  to  every  pupil  she 
met,  but  few  of  the  girls  could  boast  of  the 
honor  of  a  word  from  her.  Universally  loved 
and  venerated  though  she  was,  Saint  Ernesta 's 
aloofness  from  the  community  was  almost  as 
marked  as  that  of  the  Imp,  though  from  so  dif 
ferent  a  cause.  So,  when  she  one  day  stopped 
and  spoke  to  the  latter  in  the  garden,  even  the 
Imp  was  conscious  of  the  greatness  of  the  mo 
ment  and  of  a  swelling  of  the  chest.  The  Imp 
had  captured  a  tadpole  from  the  tiny  lake  in 
the  convent  garden,  and  was  watching  its  de 
velopment  with  the  zest  of  the  born  naturalist, 
235 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

It  and  some  caterpillars  she  had  also  separated 
from  their  kind  furnished  material  for  an  in 
structive  discourse,  but  Saint  Ernesta  was  too 
wise  for  that.  The  child  hardly  realized  how 
much  she  was  learning  from  the  simple  words 
that  fell  from  the  nun's  lips,  but  she  herself 
was  at  her  best  in  the  half-hour  that  followed, 
and  several  times  Sister  Ernesta  looked  at  her 
with  an  unusual  gleam  of  interest  in  her  old 
eyes. 

With  some  other  than  Mercedes  the  episode 
might  have  been  the  beginning  of  one  of  the 
strong  friendships  so  often  formed  between  pu 
pil  and  Sister.  Not  so  with  the  Imp.  If  she 
felt  the  human  impulse,  she  crushed  it,  and 
made  herself  unusually  obnoxious  for  several 
days  to  make  up  for  it.  She  even  took  care  at 
first  to  disappear  when  she  saw  Sister  Ernesta 
approaching;  but  this  tendency  wore  off  after 
a  time,  and  the  two  had  several  meetings,  dur 
ing  which  the  Imp  was  confessedly  on  her 
guard.  The  talk  between  them  was  entirely 
impersonal  and  had  to  do  with  any  living  thing 
but  Man.  The  subject  of  obstreperous  little 
girls  and  their  obvious  duties  was  carefully 
avoided.  From  the  first  Sister  Ernesta  seemed 
to  have  a  strange  insight  into  the  heart  and 
mind  of  the  Imp.  She  showed  this,  too,  during 
the  discussion  about  the  child  so  often  held  in 
236 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

Open  Council.  For  years  Saint  Ernesta  had 
spoken  there  but  rarely,  and  only  when  the 
special  weight  of  her  age  and  long  experience 
seemed  required.  Now,  to  the  surprise  of  the 
convent  community,  her  voice  was  suddenly 
raised  in  defence  of  the  Imp,  and  she  showed 
an  understanding  of  the  little  girl's  nature 
which  awed  her  associates.  The  Imp,  whose 
mental  processes  none  had  been  able  to  fol 
low,  seemed  an  open  book  to  the  venerable 
nun.  Again  and  again  she  did  the  things 
Sister  Ernesta  had  said  she  would  do  under 
given  conditions.  Again  and  again  the  prob 
lems  which  her  complex  nature  suggested  were 
solved  by  the  nun  through  some  instinct  which 
she  could  not,  or  would  not,  reveal.  She  her 
self  saw  little  of  the  child,  but  she  grew  to  know 
her  better  and  better  from  the  nuns'  daily  re 
cital  of  her  escapades.  And  several  times, 
when  certain  sad  tales  were  told  of  the  Imp's 
misdoings,  the  awe -struck  Sisters  distinctly 
saw  Saint  Ernes ta's  lips  twitch,  and  once  her 
thin  old  shoulders  shook  with  something  that 
seemed  like,  but  obviously  could  not  be,  amuse 
ment.  The  nuns  marvelled,  but  not  long;  for 
reflection  needs  a  quiet  atmosphere,  and  the 
Imp  chose  this  time  to  crown  her  career  at  St. 
Mary's  with  a  more  audacious  exploit  than 
any  of  which  she  had  yet  been  guilty. 
237 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

High  in  the  tower  of  the  many-sided  con 
vent  building  hung  an  old  bell  whose  tones 
for  fifty  years  had  called  the  nuns  to  mass 
each  morning  at  five  o'clock.  It  was  rung 
only  once  again  during  the  day — for  vespers 
in  the  afternoon.  During  the  remainder  of  the 
day  smaller  bells  were  sounded  to  remind  the 
Sisterhood  of  the  duties  allotted  to  the  passing 
hours.  The  bell-ringer  was  Sister  Harmonia, 
a  gentle  nun  who  had  climbed  to  her  lofty  post 
twice  every  twenty-four  hours  during  the  fif 
teen  years  she  had  dwelt  in  the  cloister.  It 
was  a  long  journey  to  the  top,  in  the  dark,  up 
the  spiral  staircase  that  wound  like  a  narrow 
corkscrew  to  the  platform  just  below  the  bell. 
A  great  key  on  Sister  Harmonia's  belt  un 
locked  the  small  door  that  led  to  the  tower, 
but  the  hinges  of  that  door  were  rusty  and  the 
lock  was  old  and  loose.  No  precautions  were 
taken  to  guard  the  place,  for  the  darkness,  the 
loneliness,  the  dust,  and  the  suggestion  of  the 
presence  of  mice  and  bats  offered  few  attrac 
tions  even  to  inquisitive  school-girls. 

The  Imp  passed  the  door  one  day  on  one  of 
her  various  tours  of  inspection,  and  noticed  the 
sagging  lock  and  the  absence  of  a  sentinel.  It 
would  have  been  a  simple  matter  for  her  clever 
fingers  to  pick  the  lock.  A  glance  proved  this, 
and  even  as  she  looked  the  Imp's  hands  in- 
238 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

stinctively  reached  forth  to  do  it.  But  a  sec 
ond  thought  made  her  pause.  She  could  not 
lock  it  again,  and  the  act  would  be  at  once 
discovered.  Was  it  worth  while — now?  Was 
there  not  perhaps  a  better  time?  Mercedes  Centi 
reflected,  and,  having  done  so,  turned  her  back 
on  the  little  door  and  went  away  with  light, 
buoyant  steps.  For  several  days  thereafter  the 
Imp  was  observed  to  feel  a  strong  but  dis 
creet  interest  in  candles.  The  inspector  of  the 
dormitory,  Sister  Italia,  noticed  this,  and  her 
heart  sank.  Something  was  in  the  wind,  but 
what?  She  carefully  confiscated  the  candle- 
ends  the  Imp  had  concealed  under  her  little 
bureau,  but  even  as  she  did  so  she  felt  she  was 
but  deferring  for  a  time  some  new  and  deadly 
move. 

The  Imp  discovered  her  loss  a  few  hours  later, 
but  it  did  not  disturb  her.  She  had  another 
candle-end  in  a  second  hiding-place,  and  it  was 
her  distinct  purpose  to  use  it  that  night  as  soon 
as  the  dormitory  was  silent  and  Sister  Italia, 
in  her  distant  corner,  was  asleep.  Nights  were 
trying  times  for  the  Imp,  who  did  not  sleep  well ; 
it  was  an  exceptional  occasion  when  she  did  not 
rouse  the  long-suffering  Sister  Italia  by  some 
startling  and  absurd  demand.  But  to-night 
she  was  so  quiet  that  the  tired  nun,  who  should 
have  known  better,  thought  she  was  asleep,  and 
239 


Tales   of  the  Cloister 

dropped   off   herself   with   a  sigh  of   exhaus 
tion. 

It  was  just  midnight  when  the  Imp  arose. 
The  great  dormitory  was  very  still.  Not  a 
sound  came  from  any  of  the  small,  white-cur 
tained  beds  snowily  outlined  by  the  dim  light 
that  burned  at  the  far  end  of  the  room  near 
Sister  Italia's  curtained  retreat.  The  Imp 
threw  her  little  woollen  wrapper  over  her  night 
gown,  thrust  her  bare  feet  into  the  woollen  slip 
pers  by  the  bed,  grasped  firmly  her  candle  and 
three  precious  matches  she  had  secured,  and, 
with  movements  as  lithe  and  noiseless  as  those 
of  a  cat,  stole  along  the  wall,  opened  the  door, 
and  found  herself  in  the  wide  corridor  outside. 
There,  too,  a  light  burned  dimly,  and  there  was 
a  chance  that  the  Sisters  who  formed  the  con 
vent  watch  and  patrolled  the  wings  of  the  great 
building  at  night  as  a  guard  against  fire  or 
other  calamity  might  see  her.  Fortune  favored 
her.  The  long  hall  was  deserted,  and  the  Imp 
flashed  through  it  like  a  meteor,  then  down  a 
side  extension,  and  finally  to  the  wing  where 
the  tower  was  situated.  It  was  a  February 
night  and  bitterly  cold,  but  what  was  physical 
discomfort  to  Mercedes  Centi,  sustained  by 
her  lofty  mission?  A  little  work  with  a  pen 
knife,  and  her  fingers  opened  the  door  that 
led  to  the  tower,  and  in  another  moment  she 
240 


"SHE   RANG   SLOWLY    AND    STEADILY  " 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

was  making  the  ascent,  her  lighted  candle  in 
her  hand. 

There  was  a  strong  draught  in  the  tower, 
and  the  feeble  flame  flickered  perilously.  Her 
wrapper  caught  under  her  feet  as  she  toiled 
up  the  narrow,  crooked  stairs,  and  it  seemed 
to  her  that  the  sleeping  nuns,  in  their  distant 
wing  of  the  building,  must  hear  the  creak  of 
the  old  boards  under  even  her  light  weight. 
But  she  kept  on  until  she  reached  the  top. 
There,  still  clinging  to  her  precious  candle  with 
her  left  hand,  she  seized  the  bell-rope  in  her 
right.  In  another  moment  the  solemn  clang 
of  the  great  bell  filled  every  corner  of  the  silent 
building.  She  rang  slowly  and  steadily,  with 
a  careful  imitation  of  Sister  Harmonia's  sys 
tematic  and  painstaking  method. 

Far  below,  in  the  cloister  wing  of  the  convent, 
the  nuns  turned  sleepily  in  their  narrow  beds. 
Five  o'clock !  The  night  seemed  strangely 
short,  and  they  felt  unrefreshed.  But  no  doubt 
disturbed  them.  Every  morning  at  five  o'clock 
during  all  the  years  of  their  cloister  lives  they 
had  risen  at  the  summons  of  that  bell.  They 
dressed  drowsily  and  filed  slowly  along  the 
halls  to  the  dark,  cold  convent  chapel.  Even 
Sister  Italia  was  among  them. 

The  Imp  did  not  defeat  the  purpose  of  her 
work  by  overdoing.  She  was  too  artistic  for 
Q  241 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

that.  The  bell  tolled  exactly  the  usual  num 
ber  of  strokes.  Then  she  crept  down  the  stairs 
and  along  the  corridors  and,  softly,  into  her 
own  dormitory  and  her  little  bed.  The  girls 
still  slept  peacefully,  for  the  five  o'clock  sum 
mons  meant  nothing  to  them.  It  was  not  till 
agitated  footsteps  sounded  in  the  halls  outside, 
and  voices  were  heard,  and  the  door  of  the 
dormitory  opened  to  admit  an  excited  band  of 
nuns  that  any  of  them  awakened.  Then  they 
sat  up  with  a  pleasant  thrill  of  expectation. 
Of  course  it  was  the  Imp.  What  had  she  been 
doing  now? 

In  the  minds  of  the  entire  community  the 
same  culprit  had  been  unerringly  arraigned. 
It  must  be  the  Imp.  Who  else  would  have 
called  them  up  at  midnight  for  five  o'clock 
mass.  Who  else  would  have  dared  to  break 
open  the  door  of  the  tower?  Sister  Harmonia, 
the  first  to  see  the  fraud,  had  hastened  to  give 
the  alarm  that  something  was  wrong,  and  a 
number  of  the  Sisters  had  gone  with  her  to 
the  tower  and  found  the  candle-grease  and 
the  burned  matches  and  the  open  door. 

The  majority  of  the  Sisters  went  humiliat- 
edly  back  to  bed.  The  matter  was  serious,  of 
course,  but  nothing  could  be  done  that  night. 
A  few  came  with  Sister  Italia  to  the  dormitory 
and  turned  their  steps  to  the  bed  where  the 
242 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

Imp  lay.  Had  there  ever  been  before  such 
sweet  and  restful  slumber?  Nestled  cosily  in 
her  cot  was  Mercedes,  her  long,  black  lashes 
resting  on  her  olive  cheeks,  her  dainty  hands 
sweetly  clasped  outside  of  the  cover,  the  coun 
terpane  rising  and  falling  with  her  regular 
breathing.  The  nuns  were  not  touched  by 
this  spectacle  of  helpless  innocence  further 
than  to  look  at  each  other,  baffled.  They 
dared  not  wake  the  child,  yet  who  but  she 
could  have  done  this  thing?  They  stole  si 
lently  away. 

The  next  morning  the  Imp,  decorously  in 
tent  upon  her  task  in  the  class-room,  was  sum 
moned  into  the  presence  of  the  directors.  Even 
her  dauntless  spirit  quailed  when  she  faced  the 
three  nuns  who  sat  awaiting  her  —  a  solemn 
conclave,  called  together  only  for  cases  of  par 
amount  importance.  It  was  by  no  means  the 
Imp's  first  appearance  before  them,  but  that 
reflection  did  not  cheer  her.  She  shot  one  keen 
glance  at  them  out  of  her  black  eyes,  then  fas 
tened  those  eyes  upon  the  floor,  and  fell  back 
upon  her  strongest  defence,  absolute  silence. 
Not  a  question  would  she  answer,  not  a  word 
would  she  say.  They  accused,  they  pleaded, 
they  reasoned — all  in  vain.  Mercedes  was  si 
lent.  Several  times  before  she  had  taken  this 
stand.  In  one  surprising  case  she  was  after- 
243 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

wards  discovered  to  be  innocent  of  the  special 
charge  made  against  her,  and  the  memory  of 
this  sadly  complicated  the  present  situation. 
Everything  pointed  to  her  guilt,  but  her  silence 
might  mean  injured  innocence — the  silence  of 
one  too  proud  to  deny  a  baseless  charge.  They 
dismissed  her  for  a  time,  with  no  outward  in 
dication  of  the  bewildered  dismay  that  filled 
their  hearts,  and  she  strolled  back  to  her  class 
room  to  take  up  the  congenial  and  temporary 
r61e  of  little  sunbeam  and  bright,  studious 
child. 

A  general  sigh  went  up  in  the  council-room 
that  afternoon  when  the  case  of  Mercedes  Centi 
again  came  up  for  discussion.  This  time  the 
problem  was  a  really  vital  one.  Should  they 
punish  her  for  an  act  not  proven,  or  should 
they  let  her  go  unpunished  and  thus  demoral 
ize  the  school  and  encourage  her  to  fresh 
outbreaks?  The  circumstantial  evidence  was 
against  her.  She  had  been  secreting  candle- 
ends  for  several  days  before  the  escapade.  Sis 
ter  Italia  testified  to  finding  and  confiscating  a 
number  of  them.  But — and  here  at  once  was 
a  point  in  favor  of  the  defendant — she  had 
taken  them  the  very  night  of  the  bell-ringing, 
leaving,  so  far  as  she  knew,  no  others  in  the 
child's  possession.  Again,  though  the  steps 
leading  to  the  tower  showed  traces  of  candle- 
244 


"THE  NUNS  DRESSED  DROWSILY" 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

grease,  no  traces  of  candle  or  drippings  were 
found  in  or  around  the  Imp's  quarters. 

One  of  the  nuns  rose  and  spoke.  The  guilt 
of  Mercedes  seemed  so  established,  she  said,  as 
to  need  little  discussion.  In  their  hearts  all 
knew  she  had  done  this  thing.  She  should 
be  punished,  and  in  a  way  that  would  make 
a  lasting  impression.  She  suggested,  as  a  just 
penalty,  that  Mercedes  be  forbidden  to  attend 
the  great  annual  holiday  entertainment  given 
by  the  pupils  to  the  nuns  in  the  large  hall  of 
the  institution.  It  was,  next  to  the  commence 
ment,  the  event  of  the  year,  and  to  be  kept 
away  from  it  would  be  a  severe  punishment, 
even  to  the  Imp,  who  had  recently  taken  a  deep 
interest  in  the  rehearsals  and  had  herself  a 
small  part  in  the  musical  programme.  There 
was  a  murmur  of  approval  and  a  little  buzz 
of  comment  which  the  quiet  voice  of  Sister  Er 
nesta  silenced.  She  had  risen  from  her  chair 
and  stood  looking  around  the  circle  of  faces  in 
which  she  saw  only  dark  distrust  of  the  Imp. 
There  was  an  unusual  erectness  in  her  pose, 
and  her  soft,  low  voice  was  very  steady  as  she 
addressed  the  Superior. 

"May  I  speak  a  few  words?"  she  said,  gen 
tly.  "I  am  interested  in  this  child,  as  you 
may  have  seen.  I  have  met  her  many  times; 
we  have  had  little  talks  in  the  garden.  I  have 
245 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

begun  to  think  that  I  know  her  a  little — that 
I  perhaps  understand  her.  It  may  be  that  we 
have  not  studied  her  carefully  enough  to  find 
the  soft  spot  that  must  be  in  her." 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  At  her  last  words 
the  eyebrows  of  Mercedes'  class  teacher  rose 
on  a  very  human  impulse,  but  she  quickly 
controlled  them.  It  was  Saint  Ernesta  who 
was  speaking,  and  who  continued  now,  a  lit 
tle  brokenly. 

"I  agree  with  you  that  some  notice  should 
be  taken  of  this  child's  act — or  her  evident  as 
sociation  with  it.  But  it  should  be  done  in 
an  unusual  way.  The  situation  is  novel.  It 
should  be  met  in  an  effective  fashion.  I  have 
a  suggestion  with  which  I  hope  you  will  agree. 
Let  me  act  as  proxy  for  my  little  friend.  Let 
her  go  to  the  entertainment;  let  me  remain 
away.  Let  her  understand  that  I  am  taking 
the  punishment  for  her — that  I  will  continue 
to  take  it  from  now  on  until  she  publicly  con 
fesses  or  denies  her  share  in  this  affair  of  the 
tower.  If  she  can  be  made  to  realize  the  spirit 
in  which  I  am  doing  this,  and  I  think  she  will, 
for  she  is  very  clever,  we  may  touch  her  way 
ward  little  heart." 

She  sank  wearily  into  her  chair.  She  had 
spoken  more  than  in  years  in  defence  of  the 
small  outlaw  who  had  put  herself  beyond  the 
246 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

pale  of  interest  and  affection.  She  must  feel 
a  strong  inclination  toward  the  child,  the  nuns 
reflected.  But  why?  What  could  these  two — 
Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp — have  in  common? 
They  puzzled  over  the  problem  even  as  they 
unanimously  assented  to  the  venerable  nun's 
plea.  They  were  not  at  all  sure  it  would  suc 
ceed,  but  harder  hearts  than  the  Imp's  might 
well  be  touched  by  it,  and,  on  the  whole,  they 
were  sanguine  as  they  separated. 

To  May  Iverson  was  given  the  delicate  task 
of  informing  the  Imp  of  the  important  decision 
reached  in  her  case.  It  is  due  Miss  Iverson 
to  add  that  none  of  the  dramatic  features  of  the 
situation  were  lost  sight  of  in  the  interview  she 
had  that  afternoon  with  the  silent  culprit.  She 
pictured  to  the  child  the  scene  in  the  council- 
room,  where  the  old  nun  had  risen  in  her  de 
fence.  She  reminded  the  Imp  of  Saint  Ernes- 
ta's  age  and  increasing  feebleness.  On  that 
dear,  venerable  back  were  laid  the  heavy  bur 
dens  of  the  Imp's  misdoing.  How  long  must 
it  bear  them? 

Mercedes  followed  her  discourse  with  acute 
working  of  her  alert  mind  and  Southern  imag 
ination,  but,  if  she  was  touched,  she  made  no 
sign.  She  merely  looked  at  May  oddly  out  of 
her  black  eyes  and  intimated  that  she  had 
no  personal  interest  in  the  conversation.  May 
247 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

watched  her  with  more  annoyance  than  sur 
prise  as  she  walked  away.  "Has  that  child 
a  heart?"  she  mused.  "  Never.  There  isn't  a 
symptom  of  one — the  little  wretch!  What  can 
dear  Saint  Ernes ta  see  in  her?"  She  pon 
dered  gloomily  over  the  Imp's  unregenerate 
attitude  as  she  went  to  consult  Sister  Cecilia 
concerning  her  own  share  in  the  musical  pro 
gramme  of  the  entertainment  to  be  given  the 
next  week. 

During  the  days  that  followed  the  Imp  went 
her  way  in  icy  aloofness  from  her  associates. 
She  did  nothing  out  of  the  common,  for  which 
grace  her  teacher  devoutly  gave  thanks  in  her 
nightly  orisons,  but  neither  did  she  show  signs 
of  the  regeneration  they  had  hoped  to  see.  Sev 
eral  times  she  met  Saint  Ernesta  in  the  halls 
and  passageways,  and  once  the  old  nun  stop 
ped.  But  her  remarks  were  on  the  subject  of 
an  injured  bird  the  Imp  was  carefully  treating 
in  the  conservatory,  and  her  friendly  inquiries 
after  the  health  of  the  pet  were  very  civilly  an 
swered  by  Mercedes.  Then  the  two  went  their 
separate  ways,  and  the  Imp  sought  diversion 
from  the  nervous  strain  of  virtue  by  carefully 
cutting  off  the  yellow  curls  of  the  girl  in  front 
of  her  in  the  French  class.  The  teacher  was 
near-sighted,  the  victim  engrossed  in  her  book, 
and  the  other  pupils  silent  from  sheer  ecstasy. 
248 


Saint  Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

The  child  who  always  sounded  the  alarm  when 
the  Imp  began  operations  was  ill  that  day. 

Those  who  felt  that  the  Imp  might  relent  be 
fore  the  entertainment  were  disappointed.  She 
was  present,  and  Sister  Ernesta  was  not.  The 
nun's  large  empty  chair  was  there,  however, 
conspicuously  placed  at  the  end  of  the  first  row 
of  Sisters,  and  Mercedes  saw  it  as  she  stood 
with  a  band  of  little  girls  singing  with  glad 
hearts  the  class  song,  "In  Heaven  We  Hope 
to  Meet."  The  Imp  went  through  her  part  of 
the  exercise  with  suave  self-possession.  Noth 
ing  could  have  been  more  exemplary  than  her 
behavior.  She  was  modest,  graceful,  conspic 
uously  courteous  to  her  associates.  Every 
grace  of  manner  she  possessed,  and  they  were 
many,  was  in  evidence  throughout  the  after 
noon.  But  there  was  absolutely  no  indication 
that  she  realized  her  melancholy  position  until 
one  of  the  older  pupils,  in  a  brief  address  of 
affection  for  the  Sisters,  mentioned  several  by 
name,  and  at  the  close  of  her  remarks  glanced 
toward  the  empty  chair. 

"We  feel  a  deep  regret,"  she  said,  "that  one 
of  our  beloved  Sisters  is  not  with  us  to-day,  yet 
we  give  thanks  that  her  absence  is  due  to  no 
failing  of  her  health  or  strength.  She  has  re 
mained  away  as  an  expression  of  her  affection 
for  one  of  us,  now  here.  We  miss  her  very 
249 


Tales  of   the  Cloister 

much,  for  as  long  as  we  can  remember  she  has 
been  with  us  on  these  occasions.  Yet  her  in 
fluence  is  with  us  as  vividly  as  if  she  herself  sat 
in  that  empty  chair,  smiling  on  us  as  she  has 
smiled  for  years — as  we  pray  she  may  smile 
on  us  for  many  years  to  come." 

That  was  all.  Sister  Cecilia  raised  her  baton 
and  the  convent  orchestra  burst  into  the  jubi 
lant  strains  of  the  Spring  Song.  A  few  of  the 
smaller  girls  were  ostentatiously  wiping  their 
wet  eyes,  but  the  Imp  preserved  an  unruffled 
immobility.  She  held  her  programme  very 
tightly,  and  her  olive  skin  had  taken  on  a 
lighter  hue,  but  her  black  eyes  looked  down 
at  the  faces  below  her  with  merely  polite  in 
terest  in  their  glance. 

May  Iverson  stole  away  from  the  hall  as 
soon  as  she  could  escape  unnoticed  and  went 
to  Sister  Ernesta's  room.  The  nun  sat  by  a 
window  gazing  past  the  snow-covered  garden 
into  the  blue-gray  winter  sky  that  hung  above 
it.  She  smiled  at  the  young  girl  as  she  en 
tered,  and  looked  questioningly  into  her  glow 
ing  face.  To  May  there  was  deep  pathos  in 
the  lonely  vigil  and  the  hope  that  brightened  it. 

"I  came  to  tell  you,  dear  Sister  Ernesta," 

she    said,    sadly,    "about    that    extraordinary 

child.     She  is  quite  unmoved  and  is  having  a 

very  pleasant  time — "    She  stopped  abruptly. 

250 


THE   IMP   CONQUERED    AND    REPENTANT 


Saint   Ernesta  and  the  Imp 

Feet  were  flying  along  the  hall,  and  as  she 
spoke  the  last  words  the  door  burst  open  with 
no  preliminary  rap.  Into  the  room  a  small 
but  extraordinarily  active  bundle  precipitated 
itself.  It  flew  across  the  floor,  dropped  on  its 
knees  beside  Saint  Ernesta's  chair,  buried  its 
head  in  the  nun's  lap,  and  burst  into  a  storm 
of  passionate  tears.  It  was  the  Imp — the  Imp 
conquered  and  repentant,  but  making  her 
amends  tempestuously,  as  she  did  all  else. 
Saint  Ernesta  laid  her  tremulous,  transparent 
hands  on  the  mop  of  hair  in  her  lap  and  turned 
on  May  a  meaning  glance  she  was  quick  to 
understand.  The  girl  left  the  room  hastily 
and  closed  the  door  behind  her,  but  even  as 
she  turned  away  she  heard  the  Imp's  voice 
raised  in  strange,  choked  words,  new  to  the 
vocabulary  of  Mercedes  Centi. 

"Oh,  Sister,"  it  said,  "dear  Sister,  I  am 
sorry.  Forgive  me.  I  will  be  good.  I  will 
always  be  good." 

May  Iverson  hurried  back  to  the  Commence 
ment  Hall.  Mingled  with  her  satisfaction  at 
the  outcome  of  Sister  Ernesta's  experiment 
was  her  wonder  at  the  sympathy  and  under 
standing  that  lay  behind  it. 

"How  did  she  know?"  she  asked  herself. 
"For  years  she  has  not  taught,  and  she  has 
not  seemed  to  notice  us.  Yet  now  she  takes 
251 


Tales  of  the  Cloister 

a  child  that  has  baffled  the  entire  convent  and 
promptly  finds  the  key  to  her  nature.  I  won 
der  why?" 

She  ventured  to  ask  Sister  Ernesta  in  the 
evening.  The  nun  was  tired,  for  an  hour's 
talk  with  the  Imp  in  an  absolutely  new  phase 
of  feeling  had  exhausted  a  vitality  none  too 
great  at  best.  And  after  it  they  had  gone  to 
gether  to  the  great  hall  and,  side  by  side  before 
the  large  audience  of  Sisters  and  pupils,  had 
stood  together  as  the  Imp  made  her  public  con 
fession  and  apology.  It  was  a  picture  not  to 
be  forgotten — the  venerable  nun  and  the  child 
facing  their  little  world,  hand  in  hand,  while 
Mercedes  Centi,  never  again  the  Imp,  laid  the 
white  foundation-stone  of  her  future  admira 
ble  career  at  St.  Mary's.  The  Saint  was  very 
pale  and  looked  older  and  more  feeble  than  ever 
before  in  the  fading  light  of  the  late  afternoon. 
The  erstwhile  Imp  seemed  very  small  and  very 
moist  and  sadly  pathetic,  but  the  courage  of 
her  ancestors  was  still  in  her,  and  she  uttered 
her  confession  in  a  clear  voice,  with  her  head 
and  shoulders  well  back.  Subsequently  she 
kissed  several  little  girls  who  seemed  to  wish 
this  demonstration — and  this  was  the  cap 
stone  of  the  monument  of  self-abasement  she 
so  gallantly  raised  that  day. 

May  Iverson  still  seemed  to  see  the  picture 
252 


Saint   Ernesta  and  the   Imp 

as  she  hazarded  her  question  that  evening. 
Saint  Ernesta  looked  up  at  her  from  the  low 
chair  in  which  she  was  resting,  and  a  twinkle 
appeared  in  her  faded  brown  eyes,  as  a  sud 
den  spark  flashes  out  in  the  twilight.  She 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  she  laughed — 
such  a  spontaneous,  natural,  gay  laugh  as  no 
one  had  heard  from  her  for  years.  She  wiped 
her  eyes  after  it,  with  a  staid  and  distinctly 
apologetic  smile. 

"Inquisitive  May,"  she  said,  "I  will  tell 
you.  I  know  that  child — every  impulse  in 
her,  every  oddly  twisted  side  of  her — as  well 
as  I  know  my  breviary.  Why?  Well,  that  is 
a  secret,  but  you  shall  have  it.  Because,  a 
little  matter  of  seventy  years  ago,  I  was  as 
exactly  like  her  as  this  bead  is  like  its  mate. 
I — was — just — as — bad — as — I — could — be ! " 

She  observed  May  Iverson's  awe-struck  look, 
and  a  smile  of  reminiscent  glee  lit  her  sweet 
old  face. 

"Remember,  though,"  she  added,  encourag 
ingly,  "we  have  both  reformed!" 


THE  END 


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